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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074563">I hope that you see me (‘cause I’m staring at you): Part 1</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicywatson/pseuds/spicywatson'>spicywatson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>I hope that you see me ('cause I'm staring at you) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(NOT ED/OSWALD AND NOT OSWALD/OMC), Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chief of Staff Edward Nygma, Court of Owls, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fever Dreams, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mayor Oswald Cobblepot, Mutual Pining, OR IS IT??, Oblivious Edward Nygma, Oblivious Oswald Cobblepot, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, a little bit, major character death is temporary don't worry!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:27:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>53,504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074563</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicywatson/pseuds/spicywatson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Heart crushed in the wake of Ed's new relationship with Isabelle (Isabella?), Oswald is terribly lonely. As the chasm between Ed and Oswald widens, Oswald finds himself growing closer to a handsome new employee. But can he really leave his one true love behind? Can Ed accept his best friend's unanticipated romance?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Isabella/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>I hope that you see me ('cause I'm staring at you) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2235009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>175</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>234</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sooo... it was about time I wrote a little love triangle fic (or I guess it's a love square)... I just need every man in Gotham to pine over Oswald.</p><p>I had a dream several months ago that Dickie was cast in season 6 as a character called Gibson (this was a very specific dream). So of course I had to write about him (and make him Oswald's love interest...)! Enjoy 💖</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ed had told him once, <em>I would do anything for you.</em> With fire warming his skin and glowing in his eyes, Ed laid down his life and bared his heart just for him. And Oswald felt it, deep in his core, like life being breathed into him after years of collecting dust in solitude. The man he’s been waiting for, the one his mother said would sweep him off his feet one day, was finally here. His one true love. So when Ed, with a teacup in hand and his throat painted purple with bruises, confessed he would go to the ends of the earth to save him, Oswald was over the moon and head over heels.</p><p>Who knew Edward Nygma could be such a wonderful liar. </p><p>It was not one day later that Ed met Isabelle— no, Isabell<em>a—</em> and Oswald’s dreams shattered, his mother’s reassuring words crumbling underfoot. Oswald would be lying if he said he didn’t drink himself half to death and subsequently spend an hour weeping the night Ed brought Isabelle to the mansion for the first time.</p><p>It hurts terribly. A feeling Oswald should be used to, really, but this is Ed, and Ed has never wounded him like this before. But Oswald wipes away his streaked mascara and forces a grin onto his lips, playing the cordial host as he’s forced to serve dinner to the woman who stole everything from him. If he has to pretend all is well, so be it. If he has to choke down his tears and carry on with that icy stone in his stomach, then that is what he’ll do. At least Ed is still around, right?</p><p>Oswald scoffs. He hardly is around anymore, and when he is, Oswald can practically see the hearts in his eyes. It’s ridiculous.</p><p>Now Ed’s guiding Isabelle around the manor’s gardens as though she deserves a personal tour of <em>Oswald’s</em> home. Sipping his second (or third?) glass of wine, Oswald hides behind the curtains, doing nothing to hide his scowl yet hoping Ed won’t feel his glare on the two of them. Although Spring approaches, it’s a chilly day, the grass and bushes bright green from the previous rain and a light mist hanging in the air. Perhaps it’s inappropriate but Oswald can’t help but hope that Isabelle catches a cold after spending half the day traipsing across the dampened grounds.</p><p>He snorts, amused at his own wickedness. Drains the rest of his wine and suppresses the urge to smash the glass against the wall.</p><p>The grandfather clock chimes, cruel and jarring. Cold, white daylight stretches across the tile floors. Oswald clutches his empty wine glass tighter in his fist, spider-thin cracks etching along the bowl. </p><p>His heart may have stopped beating, but still the day crawls on.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Work is a welcome distraction despite Oswald’s peculiarly low morale. He settles in at his desk with a stack of papers on his left and another glass of wine just within reach on his right. Birds chirp just outside the window as he scribbles signatures and notes, and minutes and then hours tick by without a single thought of Ed. For once, Oswald feels comfortable, content.<p>It’s only two hours later that Ed seemingly remembers that Oswald is in fact his best friend and that perhaps he should acknowledge his presence. Afterall, Ed barely managed two words to him before hastily draining his coffee and running off to Isabelle’s apartment earlier that morning.</p><p>His bubbly, bright laughter floats to his office door and Oswald hastily sets aside his work and rises in anticipation. </p><p>Oswald would have brightened at the sight of him had Isabelle not been hanging off his side like a leech. It’s only a brutal reminder that Oswald is alone, that the man he so desperately loves can’t even spend a minute of his time without <em>her</em> attached to him. That Oswald no longer holds a place in Ed’s mind, or his heart.</p><p>“Oswald, I’ve been looking for you,” Ed says with a warm smile, his arm held firmly (sickeningly) around Isabelle’s waist.</p><p>“Excuse me for a moment, Eddie,” Isabelle interrupts gently, giving Ed a peck on the lips that makes Oswald’s stomach twist before stepping from the room.</p><p>Ed chuckles. “Isn’t she wonderful?”</p><p>“One of a kind.”</p><p>Ed hums, utterly oblivious. “Anyway…” he begins slowly, finally tearing his eyes from the woman. Surely he notices how Oswald keeps a venomous glare on her as she prances away, but he says nothing, instead studying Oswald’s suit intently. He reaches out, picking loose pieces of lint off Oswald’s suit and smoothing out the wrinkles, and Oswald’s heart climbs up into his throat, choking him.</p><p>And then Ed’s stepping impossibly close and his deft fingers are wrapping around Oswald’s tie, tugging gently as he adjusts it for him. Oswald could scream. His heart is fluttering and his veins are on fire and if he doesn’t escape now, he might suffocate on the spot.</p><p>“<em>What</em> is it, Ed?” Oswald demands impatiently, waving Ed off. His tone comes out more knife-like than he intended.</p><p>Ed blinks and takes a step back. Too far. “I was thinking we should spend some time together-”</p><p>“What, you, me, and Isabelle?”</p><p>“Just the two of us.”</p><p>Oswald chokes down his bitterness. “I see.”</p><p>“I’ve just felt like— perhaps— since Isabella started coming by every day, we’ve grown apart.”</p><p>Oswald bites back his instantaneous response, <em>Oh, so you did notice!</em></p><p>“And I know you’re planning the Founder’s Dinner, which I’m <em>sure</em> is a great deal of stress,” he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “and I know it’s taking up a lot of your time-”</p><p>“Edward,” Oswald interrupts, waving a hand. “What are you saying?”</p><p>“I’d like to help,” Ed says resolutely, straightening his back and puffing out his chest as though asserting his position.</p><p>Oswald sighs and tightens his grip on his cane, fingers dancing impatiently. “I specifically <em>did not</em> assign you any work pertaining to the dinner because I was under the impression you wanted to spend more time with Isabelle.” He’s actually found planning the whole dinner to be much less daunting since Edward hasn’t been a part of it. He hasn’t had to worry about Isabelle popping in during meetings to fetch Ed and he hasn’t had to listen to Ed rattling on about how amazing she is. Ed <em>did</em> finally tell Isabelle that she couldn’t keep dropping by unexpectedly during said important meetings, but Oswald is sure the fawning will not end.<br/>
Truthfully, he doesn’t want Ed to join in on the planning. And the fact that he feels this way about Ed, his best friend, the only man he could ever truly love, makes his heart <em>ache.</em></p><p>But Ed’s giving him a hopeful smile, one that strikes him in a way he can’t ignore. It’s so reminiscent of their earliest days together, when Oswald wore Ed’s pajamas and slept in his bed and Ed pleaded for criminal advice. </p><p>“I know, but- this is about spending time with <em>you,</em> Oswald.”</p><p>Oswald could cry. It never <em>is</em> just the two of them anymore. Even when Isabelle isn’t there, Ed’s mind is always set on her and his eyes are always wandering. He can tell Ed’s always wishing he were somewhere else, that Oswald was someone else. And Oswald has to pretend his heart isn’t cracking in two.</p><p>“So I’d like to help,” Ed repeats, clearly not giving Oswald any choice in the matter.</p><p>“Ed,” Oswald begins, huffing an incredulous laugh and arching an eyebrow, “there’s a <em>lot</em> to coordinate, so you’re going to have to be more specific. I mean, there’s catering, decorating… not to mention, we’re still working on a guest list and invitations-”</p><p>“Well, I suppose I could-”</p><p>They’re foiled again when Isabella struts in and all but throws herself at Ed, clinging to his arm with red, glossy nails. “Eddie, you’re <em>still</em> talking?”</p><p>In that moment, Oswald considers ripping her head off with his bare hands.</p><p>Ed coughs awkwardly. “Just making plans with Mayor Cobblepot.”</p><p>She hums, shifting her gaze directly to Oswald. Her eyes glint with <em>something</em> that leaves him uneasy, and her nails tighten on Ed’s arm. Oswald returns her steady glare with a poisonous smile.</p><p>“Well, if you remember, Eddie, <em>we</em> have our own plans,” Isabella sing-songs, raising her eyebrows expectantly.</p><p>“Oh, right! Afternoon tea,” Ed says with a nod, his lack of enthusiasm made painfully clear. “I forgot. Sorry.” He casts Oswald a tight-lipped smile that he supposes is meant to be apologetic. “We’ll talk later, Oswald.”</p><p>Oswald grits his teeth but forces himself to grin for what feels like the billionth time that day.</p><p>And thus Ed allows himself to be dragged away by Isabelle, his wish to spend more time with Oswald still hanging heavy in the air and still no plan set in stone.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald tries his very best not to sulk. It’s rather difficult when he’s seated at the head of a table of world-class morons, all of whom are watching him with the same restless expression.<p>He taps his fingers impatiently on the glossy wood. Ed is a hair late and it takes nearly all of Oswald’s willpower not to toss him a seething glare when he rushes in at the last second, neat suit now rumpled and creased. No doubt where he’s been… and who he’s been with.</p><p>He ignores the apologetic glance Ed offers and kicks off the meeting.</p><p>The complaints start rolling in immediately.</p><p>“Boss, I need more guys with me on the south side,” Butch pleads, “we’ve been attacked the last <em>three</em> times a shipment’s come in!”</p><p>A pulsing headache drives itself into Oswald’s temple like an ice pick.</p><p>“Word is Gordon’s on our tail,” Gabe comments, “we need to up our security measures.”</p><p>Oswald is standing in the middle of a wreckage, spinning around and around.</p><p>“When are you going to give us the license to open our club?” Tabitha presses, fixing a hard glare on him. </p><p>Barbara raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Yeah, Ozzie. It’s been months.”</p><p>“<em>I’m working on it,</em>” Oswald hisses, feeling far too much like a petulant child.</p><p>Ed clears his throat, casting an uneasy glance at Oswald before answering diplomatically, “Give us the documents stating you’ve trademarked the ‘Siren’s Club’ name, and we’ll take care of the licenses.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>The clock seems to tick slower and slower. The list of problems only gets longer.</p><p>“Security is slim so far for the Founder’s Dinner,” Zsasz warns, raising an eyebrow as though expecting an immediate response. He stirs his strawberry milkshake with infuriating nonchalance.</p><p>“Our caterers cancelled,” Olga adds bluntly, “I cannot cook everything myself.”</p><p>“The printing press malfunctioned,” someone else pipes up, “we won’t be able to reprint invitations until it’s repaired.”</p><p>Comments continue to pour in endlessly and Oswald can feel himself trembling, the pressure building, his rib cage breaking- </p><p>“Stop!” he cries, throwing himself from his chair, “That’s enough.”</p><p>All eyes bore into him, this shaking, pitiful little bird barely holding himself upright. Head throbbing, he sucks in a sharp breath and braces himself against the table.</p><p>A gentle hand smooths across his back, startling him. “Oswald,” Ed murmurs, soft as a feather, “it’s okay. I can take it from here.”</p><p>But Oswald doesn’t want him to. He can’t pawn off all his duties on Ed the moment the pressure threatens to break his bones. He wants to be able to do this, all of this. He <em>wants</em> to be strong enough.</p><p>“Is there anything that <em>is</em> going well?” he finally asks quietly, voice a trembling, crumbling leaf.</p><p>An uncomfortable stirring spreads throughout the room. Ed’s hand is still burning his back.</p><p>“I ordered the flowers for the dinner,” Ed offers softly, as though calming a tense child, “Lilies. I thought that might make you happy.”</p><p>Oswald nods, head hung. “Thank you, Ed.”</p><p>The encouraging smile Ed gives him in return <em>almost</em> warms him right through. “You’ve got this, Mayor Cobblepot,” Ed says proudly, a quick pat on his back to seal his confidence.</p><p>The meeting is forcibly adjourned and Oswald all but drags himself towards his office, mind instantly setting on his priciest bottle of brandy when he catches sight of Ed rushing to meet Isabelle. Considering his luck so far today, he really shouldn’t be surprised when he’s rudely interrupted by Victor Zsasz, who follows close on his heels.</p><p>“Boss, there’s a guy in your office,” Zsasz says blankly, dipping his straw in and out of his pink milkshake.</p><p>Visions of towering glasses of brandy guzzled in solitude crumble to dust. “A <em>guy,</em>” Oswald repeats dully, hoping he’ll elaborate.</p><p>“Yeah. <em>The</em> guy.”</p><p>“<em>What</em> guy, Victor?!” Oswald snaps, stamping his foot. If Ed was here, he’d tell Oswald to take a breath and relax.</p><p>Zsasz gestures vaguely. “You know, that guy that applied for a job here?”</p><p>“Him? What is he doing here?”</p><p>“I don’t know, don’t you have to interview him or something?”</p><p>“N-not yet!” Oswald splutters, “I told you to do a background check on him first!”</p><p>“<em>Which</em> I’m almost done with,” Zsasz says, putting up a placating hand, “But, I <em>did</em> tell the guy to wait in your office, so…” He shrugs and grimaces exaggeratedly, not even bothering to hide his amusement.</p><p>Oswald narrows his eyes at him. “You are insufferable,” he spits, staggering towards his office while keeping a firm glare on him to make a point of his exasperation. He earns a maddeningly teasing wink from Zsasz in response. Oswald rolls his eyes and yanks open the door, making sure to slam it shut behind him.</p><p>And of course, there’s the mystery man seated before Oswald’s desk, whipping around to look at him when he hears the door close. Oswald sucks in a breath, squares his shoulders, and pushes on.</p><p>“And you are…?” Oswald rounds his desk, eyeing him the whole time.</p><p>“Oh! Uh, Gibson. Richard Gibson,” the man says hurriedly, throwing himself from his chair as he waits for Oswald to take his own seat.</p><p>Oswald is instantly struck by how handsome he is, and he finds his gaze lingering on him longer than he would like. He’s tall, possibly even taller than Ed, with a touch of rather attractive scruff and the kind of luxuriously wavy hair seen in magazines. His soft brown eyes glimmer with warmth and a hint of something like mischief. But even a peculiarly beautiful man is not enough to pique Oswald’s interest or boost his spirits even in the slightest, not when his mind is chanting <em>Ed, Ed, Ed.</em></p><p>“What is your previous experience?” Oswald asks, resting his cheek in his hand to indicate his boredom.</p><p>“Well, I-”</p><p>The doors are thrown open and Zsasz strides in, holding an intense gaze on Richard as he rounds Oswald’s desk. He leans in close so only Oswald can hear. “He checks out, boss. Squeaky clean record.”</p><p>Oswald nods once.</p><p>“Plus, he’s cute. You should definitely hire him,” he adds with a wink.</p><p>Oswald nearly squawks and he swats Zsasz away. “If you’ll <em>excuse</em> us,” Oswald hisses, throwing a stinging glare at him as he slips from the room, still wearing that idiotic grin. Oswald shifts uncomfortably in his seat and returns his eyes to Richard (although this time he finds it harder to hold his gaze). “Anyway. You were saying,” Oswald gives a nod for Richard to continue.</p><p>Richard begins rattling off his various experiences working in politics, that one time he had a stint as an actor, but Oswald can’t bring himself to listen, his eyes falling to a spot on the other man’s shoulder. All he sees is Ed’s warm smile shared only with <em>her,</em> Ed’s hand at the small of her back, his wistful sighs and wandering eyes. That should be <em>him</em> holding Ed’s arm, getting little kisses pressed to his cheek, being surprised with flowers or whatever the hell else Ed does with that woman. How could Ed sink this low? How could he think this empty-headed doppelganger is worth his time, his talent, his love? Oswald grits his teeth. Edward Nygma, the smartest man in Gotham, is so incredibly <em>blind,</em> so idiotic, to trust a riddle-loving, eager-to-please clone of his ex without so much as a second thought. Of course he falls for the first woman who’ll pay attention to him. And meanwhile, Oswald has been here the entire goddamn time, giving Ed a home, a purpose, wonderful new suits, even his open, beating heart-</p><p>“Um, Mr. Cobblepot? You still there?”</p><p>Oswald startles, snapping back to himself. “Alright, I’ve heard enough,” Oswald concludes curtly, waving him off. He rises abruptly, forcing a grin on his face. “Congratulations, Mr. Greyson-”</p><p>“It’s Gibson, sir-”</p><p>“Mr. Gibson. Welcome aboard,” Oswald says with a convincing air of cheerfulness, offering a brisk handshake to the somewhat startled man. He hadn’t heard a single word of the interview but he’s sure the man is qualified enough to bring him a cup of tea or take notes during meetings.</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot,” Richard responds earnestly, pressing a hand to his heart as though he’s making a vow, “Truly, it means the world to me-”</p><p>“Yes, yes,” Oswald mutters, struggling to keep his exaggerated smile at the man’s ridiculous fawning. He gives their clasped hands a quick pat, hoping to appease him.</p><p>“I’m looking forward to working with you- I mean, working <em>for</em> you,” Richard adds with an uneasy laugh.</p><p>Oswald narrows his eyes and glances down to find that Richard is still gripping his hand in both of his. He raises his gaze and arches an eyebrow, waiting for the man to release him.</p><p>“O- oh! I’m sorry,” he stammers, finally allowing Oswald to withdraw his hand.</p><p>Batting his eyelashes, Oswald gives him a tight-lipped smile as he brushes past him and swings open the door, not even bothering to be subtle with his intentions. The light seems to fade from Richard’s eyes, but he nods once in understanding and takes cautious steps out of Oswald’s office.</p><p>Although he’s terribly busy and thoroughly distracted by Ed, Oswald <em>almost</em> feels sorry for kicking his brand new employee out. “Victor will help you get settled,” he finally adds, as softly as he can manage at the moment.</p><p>It brings that bright smile right back to Richard’s face. “Thank you,” he says, with a little dip of his head. How gentlemanly.</p><p>Oswald ignores the faint flutter in his chest and shuts the door behind him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ibuprofen is a wonderful thing. So, when Oswald shakes the bottle and it doesn’t rattle, it’s a cause for major concern. He sifts through the contents of his desk drawers, tossing papers aside until he finds another bottle. Empty. Why can’t the King of Gotham find a <em>single goddamn pain pill?</em><p>Oswald snatches up the traitorous empty bottles and hurls them across his office, but they land on the tiles with an uneventful clatter. A steady ache sets in behind Oswald’s eyes and he slumps down at his desk.</p><p>There’s a delicate knock on the door. “Mayor Cobblepot?”</p><p>That dainty voice… Please, God, kill him now.</p><p>“Yes, come in,” he chokes out, the words bitter as a lemon.</p><p>He has just enough time to roll his eyes in annoyance before Isabelle pushes the door open and steps into his office, wearing an amicable smile. Oh, she’s just as sweet as can be, the venomous little <em>snake.</em></p><p>“I hope I’m not interrupting-”</p><p>“What is it?” <em>Enough with the pleasantries.</em></p><p>“I happened to overhear you and Eddie discussing the Founder’s Dinner, and…” she bites her lip and appears to think carefully about how she’d like to word this. </p><p>Oswald’s patience is wearing thin. He returns to his files and taps his pen incessantly on the desk. Maybe it’ll annoy her so much that she leaves.</p><p>Unfortunately, Isabelle takes a deep breath and pushes on. “I’d like you to give him more work,” she says firmly, gaze fixed on him (as though she has the authority to tell Oswald what to do), “Even more work than he has now.”</p><p>Oswald furrows his brow and tosses his pen aside. “And why would I do that?” he replies testily. “Why would I <em>add</em> to Ed’s stress, hm?”</p><p>“I think it would be good for him,” she answers, as unshakeable as that ridiculous bee’s nest of hair piled on her head.</p><p>Oswald huffs and rubs his aching temple. “I’ve never known stress to be good for anyone.”</p><p>“Well, he’s been rather depressed, actually.”</p><p>Oswald snaps his head up so quick his neck nearly breaks. If this little cretin has done anything to make <em>his</em> Ed depressed… </p><p>“He hardly eats, he’s absent emotionally… not to mention the <em>sulking!</em> Some days, I have to practically <em>drag</em> him to the teahouse!” Isabelle laughs lightly as she laces and unlaces her fingers, keeping up the act of the nervous doe. “He’s been driving me crazy!”</p><p>“Sounds like you really care about him,” Oswald sneers, half-expecting the jab to fly right over her head.</p><p>“Please don’t think badly of me,” she says hurriedly, eyes rounding as she presses her hands over her heart, “I just don’t know how else to help him. He talks about you constantly, you know.”</p><p>Oswald bites into his cheek as a spike drives into his heart. “Is that so?”</p><p>“He misses you,” Isabelle says pleadingly, gracefully taking a seat across from him. “If you give him more work- and if you spend more time with him- I think he’ll take a turn for the better.”</p><p>Ed doesn’t seem to miss him as desperately as Isabelle suggests. Oswald suppresses a scoff.</p><p>“<em>Please.</em>”</p><p>“I’ll keep it in mind, Ms-” <em>what even is her last name?</em> “-Isabelle.”</p><p>“Isabella.”</p><p>“Right,” Oswald flashes a false grin, “Goodbye!”</p><p>It’s only when she leaves and the door clicks behind her that Oswald recognizes the intense pressure finally lifting from his crushed chest. Something about her always leaves him incredibly unsettled.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>It’s Oswald’s lunch hour and he can’t even spend it in his own dining room. The instant he rounds the corner and steps through the doorway, he’s practically smacked in the face with the horrendous scene of Ed <em>feeding</em> Isabelle from his own fork while wearing a giddy smile. Oswald chokes down a gag and whirls around, hoping to hurry away before Ed catches him. Of course, Ed was far too absorbed in <em>her</em> to even notice Oswald’s presence. Too absorbed to even miss him.<p>So Oswald forgoes food in favor of a glass of wine, which he sips steadily as he roams the manor. On several occasions he crosses paths with Richard with his clipboard in hand, and each time he catches the man pausing his work to watch him surreptitiously. Although, when Richard realizes he’s been seen, he never averts his eyes hurriedly; his gaze always holds steady for a beat longer, stuck on him, trailing away slowly like warm honey. It always leaves a gentle smile on Richard’s lips.</p><p>At one point, as Oswald meanders down the hallway, he’s the one who catches Richard in a candid moment. Tucking himself rather awkwardly behind a plant, Oswald watches carefully, breath held, as Richard pauses to study a painting on the wall. <em>Is he an art connoisseur?</em> Richard reaches out, delicately taking hold of the gold frame and tipping it just so, leaving it perfectly straightened. It’s a move which reminds Oswald so much of Ed’s precision, and it makes his heart constrict minutely. Richard steps back with a little satisfied smile and continues on his way, completely unaware that Oswald’s been spying from behind the leaves.<br/>
Oswald needs some air. Perhaps a walk around the grounds should suffice.</p><p>Brisk air filling his lungs, he follows the twisting, thorny branches of the immense rose bushes which line the house, letting them lead him aimlessly along. With the silken touch of rose petals and dewy leaves under his fingertips, with the sound of birdsong fluttering through the trees above, Oswald is finally able to just breathe. It’s quiet, cool, comfortable— and Isabelle is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he should stay out here. Maybe he should have a hedge maze planted… towering, dark walls of winding vines and sturdy boughs, all surrounding a comfortable bench, or perhaps a marble statue or fountain. His own escape. He could die out here and no one would notice. He’d always figured he would die alone, anyway.</p><p>It’s when Oswald realizes his socks are damp that he resigns himself to the fact that this is a terrible day. Perhaps he’s had enough useless wandering for now.</p><p>Bones thoroughly chilled, Oswald returns inside and throws himself down on the sofa, all the while pinching the bridge of his nose as though it will relieve his tension. He can already feel a headache blooming behind his eyes, unfurling like rolling storm clouds, crackling with sparking, stabbing pains. Wonderful.</p><p>A gentle clink. A metal spoon on delicate ceramic. The rising steam invites him with the scent of warm vanilla.</p><p>“Ed, I didn’t expect to see y-” Oswald freezes. His heart sinks to the floor.</p><p>Richard gives him a pleasant smile, nudging the teacup closer to him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you! Just wanted to bring you this.”</p><p>“Oh.” How foolish of him to actually think Ed gives a damn about him anymore.</p><p>“I know it’s not <em>technically</em> in my job description, but I figured a cup of tea might do you some good.”</p><p>“I see… thank you,” Oswald responds quietly, tentatively reaching for the little cup and saucer.</p><p>“I’ve only been working here for…” Richard laughs, “well, not even a whole day, but I know stress when I see it.”</p><p>Oswald frowns into his cup. Swirling, dark tea warms his nose but he can tell it’s not the same… Ed always makes him ginger tea with honey, as their own little tradition. This is an unfamiliar vanilla-hazelnut, from a previously unopened box of teabags which Olga purchased by mistake. He takes a sip and burns his tongue, although he finds that the taste is not altogether unpleasant. “It was a lovely thought,” he finally murmurs, dipping his head gratefully.</p><p>And Oswald’s heart lurches into his throat when Richard takes a seat beside him, just to enjoy the silence and the welcome, wafting aroma of vanilla.</p><p>The tea cools to a comfortable warmth and Oswald drains the rest in contentment.</p>
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</div>It’s almost astounding how different Isabella is from Miss Kringle. Despite the obvious fact that Isabella is a spectacular spitting-image of Kristen, her personality, her quirks, and her <em>heart</em> are miles off.<p>Kristen never pretended to like the things Ed was interested in. She had her own music, her own books, her own preference for how her coffee was served. Isabella, however, <em>adapts.</em> She’s not particularly good at writing her own riddles but she forces herself to try. She dresses primarily in shades of green. She drinks ginger tea with honey but hardly manages to choke down the bittersweet taste. Ed tries to tell her that it’s <em>okay</em> to just be who she is, to like things that Ed hates or to dislike things that Ed loves, because he loves her all the same. But she pats his cheek and decides that the happiest couples are the ones who have the most in common.</p><p>Ed isn’t sure about that.</p><p>There’s something else, too, something Ed can only describe as <em>unsettling.</em> With her glowing smiles and soft eyes, Isabella keeps up the appearance of being sweeter and more docile than Kristen… except when she’s not. She makes the same quick jabs at Ed that his first girlfriend had, but they always sting a little more than Kristen had ever intended. Whereas Kristen would apologize for her fiery remarks if she took a step too far, Isabella laughs pleasantly and smooths over Ed’s discomfort with a kiss. Ed guesses she’s a tad bit insecure of her position in his heart. Despite the jarring contrast between the two women, Ed thinks that, deep down at Isabella’s very core, there’s a glimmer of his first love. And perhaps over time, as they grow closer, she’ll shine through.</p><p>But unfortunately for now, Isabella has to leave. Before running off to the library for her shift, she presses a kiss to Ed’s lips and he feels loved.</p><p>He wanders about the mansion with a spring in his step. It’s strange to have another person want him in their life, but it’s a welcome thing after all he’s been through before.</p><p>“Ed!”</p><p>He whips around, heart swelling at hearing his name on Oswald’s lips, at hearing it spoken with so much enthusiasm and warmth after being on ice for so long. He practically bounces to Oswald’s side in response.</p><p>But Ed’s bright smile slips to the floor as he’s met face to face with a man who is far too handsome and far too unfamiliar.</p><p>“Edward, have you met Richard?” Oswald continues, tone sweet and cordial. A feigned pleasantry, forced warmth towards Ed. His heart deflates.</p><p>“I haven’t,” Ed says dully, acknowledging the new face with a weak smile.</p><p>Oswald turns to the other man. “Richard, this is my Chief of Staff, Edward Nygma.” A simple introduction. No glowing compliments or beaming smiles cast in his direction.</p><p>A wide grin instantly brightens Richard’s face and he throws his hand out in offering. “Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Nygma.”</p><p>“Likewise.” Ed takes his hand and gives it a less than enthusiastic shake.</p><p>Oswald eyes the two briefly before apparently becoming aware of the fact that Ed does not plan on saying much else to Richard. And why should he want to? How is this man worth Ed’s time, or rather, <em>Oswald’s</em> precious time?</p><p>The moment stretches out for miles, silent and uneasy.</p><p>“Well, I trust you’ll make him feel right at home,” Oswald finally says resolutely, clearly not wanting to make small talk (or any talk) with Ed. He gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and a tight-lipped smile before leaving the two alone.</p><p>Ed watches every step Oswald takes until he disappears into the dim hallway.</p><p>“So,” Richard pipes up with a genial smile, “I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr. Nygma, I really-”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Ed grunts, eyes still glued to the empty doorway, the ghost of Oswald’s form.</p><p>“I have a feeling I’m gonna like it here… ” Richard trails off, brow furrowing as he notices Ed’s distraction.</p><p>But Ed’s mind is already a mile off, thinking only of Oswald’s cool demeanor and fleeting touches. As if being pulled by some powerful, invisible magnetic force, Ed can’t help but chase after him.</p>
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</div>Oswald seems different lately. Secluded. Sad. Always folded in on himself when Ed’s near, his eyes never holding that same sparkling, genial warmth. Not to mention the drinking. It seems Oswald is never without a glass in hand.<p>Ed wishes he could hold him. Breathe happiness and comfort back into him. It’s been weeks (no, months?) since Oswald last hugged him like he was his entire world, those gentle hands stroking over his back and that lovely sharp nose pressed into his neck.</p><p>It was after Isabella came along that Ed felt this seismic shift, the quaking, the fracture beneath his feet as Oswald drifted further and further out of reach. Oswald doesn’t like Isabella, Ed can tell— although it’s not really a well-kept secret anyway.</p><p><em>But Ed doesn’t know what to do.</em> Does he sacrifice his chance of having Miss Kringle back— and what might be his <em>only</em> chance at real, fated love? Does he abandon this miracle of a woman so he can keep Oswald by his side? Or does he drive on to blue skies, live the picket-fence lifestyle with Kris- Isabella, leaving his one true friend behind in the dust?</p><p>The very thought of losing Oswald makes him dizzy. But it seems that Oswald is already slipping away faster than Ed can stop it.</p><p>Something has to give.</p><p>Somehow, Ed’s still fairly surprised when, after meeting this idiot Richard and rushing off after Oswald, he finds him directly in the next room, sunken into the couch. Oswald attempts to hide his red-rimmed eyes behind his quivering hand.</p><p>Ed kneels before him and takes hold of his knee gently. “Oswald,” he prompts gently, but his friend keeps a steady gaze on the floor.</p><p>Movement from the hallway catches his eye, and Ed casts a glance over to find Richard lingering there, brow knitted with concern. After realizing he’s earned a warning glare from Ed, he takes the hint to <em>leave,</em> and <em>fast.</em></p><p>Ed shifts uncomfortably and returns his attention to Oswald. Tears tremble on his lower lashes.</p><p>“Are you okay, Oswald?”</p><p>“Right as rain!” he chokes out, vocal chords pulled taut, close to snapping.</p><p>Ed can almost hear the break the moment it happens.</p><p>“Oswald!” Ed gasps, startled by the tears slipping down Oswald’s freckled cheeks as he crumples in on himself. “What is it? Does your leg hurt? I- I can help, it’s alright-”</p><p>“I- I can’t do it, Ed,” Oswald sobs, “It’s too much. It’s just <em>too much.</em>”</p><p>Of course. The Founder’s Dinner. “Oswald, <em>please</em> let me help,” Ed pleads, “let me help you and I promise you we will get this sorted out.”</p><p>Nodding his consent, Oswald wipes roughly at his eyes, smearing mascara across his rosy cheeks. Ed reaches out, tenderly touching his warm face, stroking away his smudged makeup.</p><p>“There’s something else bothering you,” Ed presses.</p><p>And then, in a small, fragile voice, Oswald asks something Ed never expected to hear:</p><p>“Are you my friend?”</p><p>It makes his heart crumble, seeing Oswald like this, with glassy eyes and trembling hands. Timid, breakable. He wastes no time in answering, hands flying out to catch Oswald’s and hold them steady. “Of course! Oswald, <em>of course</em> I’m your friend. I’m your <em>best</em> friend!”</p><p>Oswald only nods morosely. </p><p>Ed shakes his head, huffing at himself, at his own idiocy. “I’m sorry, Oswald, I- I haven’t been very good to you lately-”</p><p>“No, Ed-”</p><p>“-And I’ve hardly even been around… Oswald, I’m so sorry, you must feel like I’ve forgotten all about you!”</p><p>The way Oswald’s lips part but words seem to fail him is all the confirmation Ed needs. Oswald <em>does</em> think Ed’s abandoned him. A sickening weight settles in Ed’s stomach, heavy as a stone.</p><p>“Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time away,” he wonders aloud, “Too much time with Isabella.”</p><p>Oswald’s brows knit, he shakes his head gently. “Ed, I don’t want you to give up your own happiness for my sake-”</p><p>“<em>You</em> are part of my happiness, Oswald,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking his pale, cold knuckles.</p><p>It takes Oswald a moment longer to find Ed’s eyes again, but when he does, when their gazes finally latch, it strikes Ed to his core. The beautiful, glass green of Oswald’s eyes is misty, no longer an alluring, clear pool inviting Ed in. It’s like something is clouding Oswald’s mind. Like there’s something Oswald’s not telling him.</p><p>Oswald casts those lovely eyes away and Ed is forced to release his hands.</p><p>Even after they part ways, Ed cannot take his mind off him.</p>
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</div>Oswald certainly isn’t hiding out in his office. His last encounter with Ed seems to have left a permanent blushing glow on his cheeks, one he’s far too embarrassed to allow anyone to notice.<p>Oswald blinks and Ed swims behind his eyes, Oswald tries to drown in silence and Ed’s voice floats in his ears. Like an old familiar record, Oswald replays the moment over and over, memorizing every groove, every line of worry etched into Ed’s face. How his eyes had been so incredibly soft it almost <em>pained</em> Oswald to see. How warm and gentle his hands had been, how desperately they held Oswald’s own.</p><p>Perhaps he shouldn’t try to shut Ed out, perhaps it’s only hurting their relationship even more-</p><p>A knock rattles Oswald out of his deep thoughts and brings his attention to Richard, who has just slipped through the door with a pleasant, although hesitant, smile. Truth be told, Oswald isn’t terribly surprised to see him back in his office again, after the man had been casting secret (almost <em>curious</em>) glances at him all day.</p><p>Oswald returns to his pen and paper, scribbling uselessly in an effort to look busy. “Do you need something, Mr. Gibson?” he asks slowly, pretending he’s very absorbed in whatever nonsense he’s written. He blushes once again when he realizes he’s been scrawling question marks all over his paper, and he hastily snatches it up and stuffs it into a drawer.</p><p>“I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Cobblepot,” Richard says happily, “It’s been a great first day!”</p><p>“Glad to hear it,” Oswald responds, throwing him a tight-lipped smile as he rises from his desk and staggers to his decanter, a golden beacon waiting for him on the credenza. He pours a drink, feeling Richard’s eyes on him the whole time. He shifts uncomfortably. Sighs heavily and sets his glass down.</p><p>“Was there something else you needed?” he prompts impatiently, arching an eyebrow as he turns to face Richard fully. He’s not used to receiving this much <em>attention</em> from a man who isn’t trying to arrest him or who is not Edward Nygma.</p><p>“O-oh! No, no. That was all,” Richard shuffles awkwardly back, retreating from Oswald’s office like he’s been caught red-handed, “Well, I suppose I should let you get back to it.”</p><p>Oswald nods once, this time offering a warmer smile, hoping perhaps it will calm the man enough so he’ll finally take his leave.</p><p>But Richard pauses in the doorway and turns around to face him once more. Oswald struggles not to groan in frustration. “I- I’m sorry, Mr. Cobblepot, but-” Richard laughs nervously, “-has anyone ever told you that you have the most wonderful eyes?”</p><p>Oswald blinks, heart stuttering to a stop. That was entirely unexpected. “I…” His voice dies almost instantly and he has to choke down his squeak of bewilderment. His mother always complimented him on his eyes, but having a man say such lovely things to him nearly sends him reeling. No one, other than Ed, has ever been so kind. Maybe he’s being foolish but when a bashful smile spreads across Richard’s face, Oswald can hardly ignore the fluttering in his heart.</p><p>He also notices, once again, how much of a fine looking man Richard is.</p><p>“It’s just- I’ve been very distracted by them,” Richard explains, blushing wildly.</p><p>Oswald lets out a breathless and frankly <em>ridiculous</em> laugh before he can help it. <em>How terribly unprofessional of him.</em> “I… don’t know what to say,” he chuckles, his ears and cheeks burning furiously as he searches his office for a distraction.</p><p>“You don’t have to say anything,” Richard says with a warm—almost fond—smile, “just take the compliment.”</p><p>And then, just before he slips from the room, he tosses a <em>wink</em> at Oswald that nearly makes his lungs collapse. The door closes behind him and Oswald is already reaching for his drink, trying to ignore the stifling heat in his cheeks.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oswald and Richard grow closer. Ed wrangles with his hatred of Richard and inadvertently undermines his relationship with his best friend.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The grand opening of ‘The Siren’s’ club is an explosive success. With some cajoling smiles and bribes tucked into the pockets of powerful people, Oswald was able to have it open within two weeks of when Barbara and Tabitha first pestered him about it. </p><p>It wasn’t without benefit to himself, though. Since his plans for catering the Founder’s Dinner went up in flames, Oswald is sure he can kindly persuade the two women to provide alcohol for the celebration. It’ll save Oswald from the distress of procuring enough liquor for a prominent crowd, and it will get the ‘Siren’s’ name out there. Everybody wins. </p><p>“Enjoying yourself, Ozzie?” Barbara asks sweetly, leaning across the bar with her chin resting delicately on her fingers. Her dress shimmers and sparkles almost as glaringly as the twirling disco balls hanging above.</p><p>“Of course,” Oswald responds graciously, batting his eyelashes, “The place looks marvelous!”</p><p>“Oh, you,” she coos, flapping a hand at him.</p><p>“And I would <em>love</em> it if you would consider catering the Founder’s Dinner, after all-”</p><p>“Is he seriously asking again?” Tabitha interrupts, rolling her eyes at Oswald as she polishes a glass.</p><p>Oswald purses his lips. “You two owe me for fast-tracking the launch of ‘The Siren’s.’”</p><p>Barbara hangs her head to the side in exasperation. “So you’ve said many times.”</p><p>“We told you we’d think about it,” Tabitha tells him sharply, “so leave my girlfriend and I alone until we give you an answer!”</p><p>Oswald rolls his eyes as emphatically as he can possibly manage. “Fine,” he huffs.</p><p>When he’s left alone again, he feels far too much like a lonely drunkard searching for ways to fill the whole in his heart, a man with no friends, no family, no husband. He briefly considers looking for Ed until he spots him at the far end of the bar with Isabelle practically sitting on top of him. It’s sickening. With no one paying attention to him, Oswald allows himself to groan in frustration as loudly as he pleases.</p><p>But there’s a presence at his side, someone taking a seat on the stool right beside him.</p><p>“Can I buy you a drink?”</p><p>“No,” Oswald says coyly as he turns towards Richard, “I’ll buy <em>you</em> one.”</p><p>He orders the strongest liquor possible for himself, and a garish, frilly drink for Richard, who seems like the kind of man who prefers something sweeter, something more mellow. While Oswald can’t deny he has an irresistible sweet tooth himself, when it comes to drinks, he’ll order whatever gets him drunk the quickest- no use delaying his intentions.</p><p>Now Richard is making some banal comment about how nice the club is, but Oswald is distracted by the obnoxious giggling coming from Ed’s end of the counter. He looks over just in time to see Isabelle biting olives off a pick as Ed holds it out for her and laughs giddily. Suddenly, Oswald feels terribly nauseous, and that familiar grimace settles onto his face again. He snatches up his whiskey and downs it.</p><p>“Do you love her?” Richard asks suddenly, eyes softening as he studies Oswald’s pitiful, sour expression.</p><p>Oswald almost chokes. “<em>What?</em> God, no- I’m <em>gay.</em>” Oswald had thought he’d made that fact particularly clear. Perhaps he should start dressing in rainbow colors… </p><p>“Oh,” Richard breathes, almost a sigh of relief, “me too.”</p><p>Heart trembling, Oswald latches onto his own sleeve and fiddles with his cufflink. He desperately needs another drink. A <em>distraction.</em></p><p>The music shifts abruptly, from a mellow rock to a heavy, thumping beat. It’s still early but the people who are already drunk throw themselves to the middle of the room and dance erratically. Oswald’s mouth twists involuntarily as he watches the disastrous moshing.</p><p>“Do you dance?”</p><p>Oswald snorts.</p><p>“Neither do I,” Richard confesses.</p><p>“Well, look at us,” Oswald says with a gentle smile and a raise of his empty glass.</p><p>Richard lifts his own drink in turn and clinks them together. “Here’s to being the life of the party.”</p><p>And for the first time in what feels like ages, Oswald <em>laughs.</em> Full-chested, bright, and undeniably passionate.</p><div class="center">
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</div>When they’d set out for the Siren’s Club earlier that evening, Ed had not expected this. Yes, they were here to celebrate the grand opening, sip a few drinks under the dancing lights, unwind… and of course, persuade Barbara and Tabitha to provide alcohol for the Founder’s Dinner in a couple of weeks. But Ed looks up from feeding Isabella some of his pretzels to see Oswald, chin in his hand, gazing drunkenly at Richard and probably asking for another drink. Four empty glasses clutter around him. <em>Oh dear.</em> This is not good for appearances. With a kiss to her cheek he bids a discouraged Isabella goodbye and, rolling up his sleeves, gently but firmly grasps Oswald’s arms and tugs him away. He slumps into Ed’s arms but then abruptly giggles and finds shaky but sufficient footing. <p>Somehow, Ed manages to get the both of them to the waiting limousine in one piece, although Oswald drawls on and on that he’s <em>‘fine,’</em> he’s been <em>‘drinking since before Ed was born.’</em> Ed decides not to argue against Oswald’s drunken logic on that one.</p><p>The only problem arises when Ed tries to get Oswald to go to bed. He’d gotten his shoes off, miraculously, although it took some finessing and about ten minutes of having Oswald’s foot in his lap as he untied the laces.</p><p>Oswald squints. “Are you Ed?”</p><p>“I…”</p><p>“I wan’ you to be Ed,” Oswald mumbles, fumbling fingers latching clumsily to Ed’s lapels. He leans forward and buries his face in Ed’s chest, as though he’s going to sleep on his own soft pillow.</p><p>“Os-” his voice fades in a breath. Should he move him? He certainly can’t stand here all night. “Let’s get you to bed.”</p><p>Oswald only hums, long and low, allowing Ed to sling an arm up over his shoulder and half-drag him back to the master suite. His body is so incredibly <em>warm</em> where his waist curves against Ed’s arm, that Ed considers just holding him the whole night, no matter how sore his muscles are. It’s as close to a hug as he can really get.</p><p>He guides his friend to the bed, tosses aside the comforter, and slowly lowers him down. Oswald happily flops back onto the pillows, one arm dangling over the side.</p><p>“There you go,” Ed murmurs, swinging Oswald’s legs up onto the mattress. Oswald’s eyes have slipped shut and, as he tucks a blanket around him, Ed smiles. It’s rare that he has the opportunity to dote on Oswald nowadays, and it’s something he’s missed, as odd as it sounds.</p><p>“<em>I miss Ed.</em>”</p><p>Ed freezes. The words are so soft, barely there and barely intelligible, but he’s sure he heard him right.</p><p>Hand trembling, he brushes the downy hair from Oswald’s eyes, fingers ever so carefully skimming his forehead. “Sleep well, my friend,” he whispers, barely recognizing his own voice.</p><div class="center">
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</div>“Eddie! I didn’t think you’d be back for a while.”<p>Ed smiles at Isabella, who pours a cup of tea for each of them before nestling herself gracefully into the sofa cushions.</p><p>“Mayor Cobblepot looked a little… out of sorts,” Isabella comments with a little laugh.</p><p>Ed leans back into the couch, sighing as he settles into the cool, plush pillows. “He’ll be alright. This is basically part of his routine, now,” Ed chuckles, although he immediately feels guilt prickling under his skin. They certainly shouldn’t be making light of Oswald’s drinking- it’s not right.</p><p>“So,” Isabella begins, tucking her legs up and snuggling closer to Ed, “did they agree?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“The <em>‘Sirens,’</em>” she giggles, baring her teeth in a wide, glittering smile that’s entirely Kristen Kringle. “Are they going to cater the Founder’s Dinner?”</p><p>“I doubt Oswald did us any favors tonight, but Barbara and Tabitha <em>do</em> owe us for opening their club.”</p><p>Isabella hums in acknowledgement and sips her tea, hiding her grimace at its taste behind the rim of the cup. “I hope they agree. I really liked that drink we ordered.”</p><p>Ed nearly chokes on his tea (ginger with honey, it makes him strangely melancholic). “The grasshopper? You barely touched yours!” he says with a teasing nudge.</p><p>“Only because someone,” she taps his nose, “was feeding me so many pretzels!” She leans in for a peck on the lips and she is so sweet that Ed is happy to oblige.</p><p>“Eddie!” Isabella exclaims suddenly, perking up, “maybe the Sirens could provide bodyguards for the Founder’s Dinner too! You did say security is a little… <em>lacking</em> didn’t you?”</p><p>Why didn’t Ed think of that? “That is true,” he concedes, “but Barbara and Tabitha’s foothold in the underworld isn’t particularly strong yet. They’re still building their empire, so it might take time to gather more loyal bodies.”</p><p>“But since they owe you, it would be free,” she singsongs, gazing at Ed with those doe eyes.</p><p>Perhaps she’s right. He brushes a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I’ll talk to Oswald about it.”</p><p>She hums happily in response and nestles her head on his shoulder. Eventually, sleep pulls Ed under and he dreams that she has dark hair and freckles.</p><div class="center">
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</div>Oswald wakes with a sour taste on his tongue and mascara smeared all over his cheek and pillowcase. It wouldn’t be the first time, and at this point he’s used to hangovers. He presses the heel of his hand to his temple and struggles against the urge to dash to the bathroom. It’s not like he has any choice other than to choke down the swelling nausea, throw back a pain pill, and push on through the day. He drags himself out of bed, cleans himself up and dresses in his most comfortable suit. Richard, who appears to be nursing his own headache, is rather attentive and constantly asks Oswald if he’d like another cup of tea to soothe his stomach (he seems to think vanilla is Oswald’s favorite, but Oswald doesn’t have the heart to tell him). <p>Teacup warming his hands, Oswald continues on with work and meetings, his head pounding but a smile frozen on his lips. Halfway through the day, he finds himself wandering back to his office for a brief respite, but he freezes in the doorway when he discovers he has company.</p><p>There’s Richard, hovering over his desk, meticulously placing a vase of artfully arranged, fresh tulips, all of a deep, velvety purple hue. He turns the vase one way, turns it the other way. Pushes it just a few inches to the right. Exactly center on the desk. So particular. <em>Like Ed.</em></p><p>“What are those?”</p><p>Richard startles and spins around. He opens his mouth but words fail him.</p><p>Oswald snorts, hobbling towards the vase. “Flowers? Does someone think I’ve died?”</p><p>Richard is strangely silent beside him, eyes downcast and hands clasped tightly.</p><p>Oswald plucks a little card from the bouquet, stealing a quick glance at Richard as a thought begins to dawn on him. He reads the note and flushes red from head to toe. <em>For Mayor Cobblepot. Forever yours, R.</em></p><p>As suspected.</p><p>He can’t even react other than release a little squeak of surprise before Richard is fumbling over his words, trying to smooth things over. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mayor Cobblepot-”</p><p>“Oh, it’s al-”</p><p>“I knew I shouldn’t have, I am <em>completely</em> out of line-”</p><p>“Stop speaking,” Oswald interrupts sharply, throwing up a hand. Then the line along his brow softens and he offers a gentle smile as he admires the richly colored bouquet, with its lovely petals and curling green leaves. No one in the world has ever gifted him with flowers, save for his mother on perhaps one or two occasions, when she could afford them. Does he perhaps have a not-so-secret admirer? He’s struck by a sudden thought, a memory of his mother telling him that a man who truly loves him will shower him with affection, will press flowers into his hands while dotting a kiss on his cheek. And now here he is, with a bashful, beautiful man presenting him with tulips in his very favorite hue.</p><p>Somehow, Oswald seems to have woken up in his own fairytale.</p><p>“I wanted to do something nice for you,” Richard says quietly.</p><p>“Well, they’re beautiful,” Oswald murmurs, eyes twinkling and fingers tracing the delicate petals. His heart might as well be a puddle on the floor, with the way he feels like he’s melting. An indescribable warmth blooms in his chest, nearly stealing his breath away.</p><p>“You’re sure it’s not too much?”</p><p>“Of course not,” Oswald assures gently, meeting Richard’s gaze. “They’re wonderful.”</p><p>He earns the softest of smiles in response.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed misses Oswald terribly. Even when he’s only a few feet away it feels like miles and miles stretched between them, and there’s a little pull in his chest that he struggles to ignore.<p>It’s not Oswald isolating himself entirely, shutting himself away in his quarters to drink and break things and cry all his makeup off. It’s Oswald distancing himself solely from <em>Ed</em> (at least when he’s sober). And Ed can’t pretend he doesn’t notice how Oswald’s face seems to fall whenever he’s near.</p><p>But Oswald’s eyes seem to brighten the moment that ridiculous new staff member walks into the room. He’s charming, handsome, and seems far too interested in Oswald. Ed hates his guts. Not only that, Ed does <em>not</em> trust him.</p><p>It’s true that he doesn’t have a concrete reason for his intuition, and in all of his digging he hasn’t found a single blemish on the man’s records, no trace of anything suspicious. A simple, hard-working man looking for a place in politics, so it seems. Ed scoffs at that. Yet, he knows if he dares bring his concerns to Oswald, it’ll be his neck on the line. Their friendship will crumble, and Oswald will cast him away.</p><p>So, no matter how infuriatingly difficult, Ed keeps his mouth shut. But if Richard won’t get away from Oswald, Ed will just have to get Oswald away himself. That’s a promise. And the fact that Oswald (although drunkenly) admitted to <em>missing</em> Ed gives him all the confidence he needs to make a move. Heart climbing into his throat, he nearly has to chase Oswald down when he spots him staggering through the hallway, his third (?) cup of tea in hand.</p><p>“Oswald!”</p><p>He falters, spinning on his heel, eyes round and glazed. Ed <em>hates</em> that look. It means he’s far off somewhere else, floating, daydreaming… and it almost definitely has something to do with Richard.</p><p>“Oswald. Dinner tonight?”</p><p>He blinks slowly, lips parting. “Ed, actually… Richard and I are going to dinner this evening,” he eventually says with a sympathetic grimace, although Ed can see the pleased anticipation masked underneath. It makes him bristle. “If there’s something you’d like to discuss-”</p><p>“How about tomorrow, then?” Ed asks urgently, fingers twitching.</p><p>“Tomorrow?” Oswald says thoughtfully, mulling it over.</p><p>“Your schedule should be free. After all, <em>I am</em> in charge of keeping track of meetings and other… dates,” Ed can’t help but add bitterly.</p><p>“Alright then,” Oswald concedes, meeting his eyes and giving him a quick but soulless smile before moving to brush past him. </p><p>Their shoulders touch just briefly and it’s like the life is breathed back into Ed’s lungs. It’s been so long since he’s actually felt a connection between them, like the one they had only a few months ago. Call him ridiculous, but Ed has been desperately longing for those days when Oswald gave him sparkling, genuine smiles and tight hugs.</p><p>Oswald pauses and turns back to Ed, and his voice grounds him. “Oh, and Ed? Perhaps I should give some of your secretarial duties to Richard? Maybe let him handle my schedule? It seems so <em>beginner</em> for you,” he says pleasantly, probably meaning it as a compliment.</p><p>And then he’s gone again and Ed doesn’t know whether he should laugh or scream. He can’t help but feel like he’s slowly being replaced. Something must be done.</p><p>He paces. Wanders aimlessly. Brain buzzing, spinning. He finds himself in Oswald’s empty office. A lush bouquet of dark tulips rises up before him, taunting him, threatening him.</p><p>His heart clenches; he knows what they mean. This is a declaration of love.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The rest of the day seems to crawl by, a snail inching along painstakingly slow. Oswald still can’t believe he has a <em>date</em> tonight. A real, actual date with a strikingly attractive man which, for once, will probably not involve bludgeoning someone to death or tearing some poor soul’s fingernails out. It’s refreshing.<p>He tamps down the fleeting disappointment that Ed didn’t ask first. It’s no use fretting, he’s learned that by now. Then he gets back to work, scrutinizing every single item on the caterer’s list, building a respectable menu for the Founder’s Dinner. The clock ticks a steady rhythm, its pace only slowing each time Oswald’s eyes wander.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald spends at least two hours in front of the mirror, his makeup and hair products strewn wildly across the vanity. He remembers when he used to do this with a lighter heart: primp and preen and make himself look pretty for Ed’s gaze alone. He sighs when he feels the sadness welling up in his chest. Most days, Ed’s gaze is focused elsewhere.<p>Sucking in a breath, he snatches up a brush and sweeps soft charcoal-purple over his eyes. His hand shakes just so slightly as he lines his lower lids with white, then traces over again with solid black. He pumps his mascara wand rather aggressively and curls it over his lashes. </p><p>He examines himself, smooths out his velvet suit, places that lost strand of hair back. Even with the little confidence he has, he thinks it’s a grand transformation. He certainly looks better than he did even a year ago. </p><p>Oswald huffs. Fine. If Ed doesn’t want him, at least there’s someone who does.</p><p>“Mr. Cobblepot.”</p><p>Oswald turns, eyebrows raised in expectation as Olga crosses her arms in the doorway.</p><p>“Your <em>lover</em> has arrived,” she says, plump face pinching as though she’s disgusted with yet another one of Oswald’s love interests. He would smile fondly at her fussing over his romances if she wasn’t so indignant about it… he doubts she’ll ever approve of any man he brings home.</p><p>“Thank you, Olga,” he sighs huffily, readying his cane. </p><p>Deep breath. Time to go.</p><p>“Oswald!”</p><p>He’s made it halfway to the parlor when he whirls around to find Ed practically <em>sprinting</em> towards him. While he appreciates the concept of Ed chasing after him, desperate for his attention, he <em>is</em> on the clock right now.</p><p>“Ed, can we make this quick, I have to go-”</p><p>“Go where?”</p><p>Oswald blinks. “To dinner? Edward, we discussed this earlier-”</p><p>Ed huffs, and Oswald can tell he’s barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. It makes him fume. “Isn’t it rather unprofessional for an employee to ask his boss to dinner?”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Oswald answers flatly, not wanting to engage in whatever little game Ed is playing. He’s made it particularly clear that he does <em>not</em> like Richard, from the looks and the passing snide remarks, and Oswald does not appreciate it. “But <em>I</em> asked <em>him</em> to join me, so it doesn’t matter-”</p><p>“<em>You</em> asked him,” Ed interrupts dully, “to dinner.”</p><p>“Yes,” Oswald returns sharply.</p><p>“<em>Him.</em>”</p><p>Oswald sets his jaw and throws him a stinging glare.</p><p>Ed’s lips part, as though he’s only just realized how incredibly rude he’s probably being. “I- I’m sorry, Oswald, I didn’t mean to- it’s just- I worry about you.”</p><p>Oswald’s eyes soften, his brow relaxes just slightly. So Ed really would do anything for him, even worry himself sick over his well being.</p><p>“We haven’t known him for very long, I know <em>so little</em> about him-”</p><p>It’s almost amazing how quickly the burning anger in Oswald’s veins subsides, how easily it’s overwhelmed instead by the swelling of his heart. “Edward,” he soothes, giving him a tender smile as he steps forward to place a gentle hand on his arm, “Victor did a <em>very</em> thorough background check on him. He’s safe.”</p><p>Ed nods solemnly, gaze fixed on the floor, eyes round and full of concern for Oswald. <em>How sweet he is.</em></p><p>Oswald dares to move the hand on his arm to his cheek, to allow his thumb to brush gently against his warm, smooth skin. Ed releases the tiniest of gasps that nearly has Oswald forgetting how to breathe. “I’ll be alright, Ed,” he says softly, “my dear friend.”</p><p>And their eyes meet and there’s a palpable shift in the air, a heavy heat threatening to suffocate Oswald. His lips part. Ed’s deep gaze flickers down, and up again. Oswald’s heart stills.</p><p>“Oswald, I-” Ed breathes, but he falls silent, his voice failing him but his eyes unwavering.</p><p>But then he exhales suddenly, face falling as though he’s caught himself, and the moment fades. Oswald feels his heart sinking, withering away like a dying flower petal.</p><p>“I hope you have a wonderful night,” Ed finally says quietly, not even looking Oswald in the eyes before he breaks away from him, his expression cold and distant.</p><p>Oswald’s hand is left hanging mid air, the ghost of Ed’s cheek still tingling on his fingers, the ache in his heart steadily setting in.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>After taking a moment to collect himself, Oswald finds Richard in the foyer. He finds himself having to suck in a trembling breath when he rounds the corner and sees Richard, dressed wonderfully, his luxurious hair combed neatly into place. Shockingly, Oswald seems to have the same effect on Richard, who looks as though he’s just laid eyes on the eighth wonder of the world.<p>“Wow, Mr. Cobblepot-”</p><p>“Oswald.”</p><p>“Oswald,” he says with a chuckle, “you look incredible, really- I mean, you always do, of course.”</p><p>Oswald can only imagine how brightly he’s blushing now. Feeling rather flustered, he smiles, casting his eyes away to avoid Richard’s gaze. If only for a moment, he can pretend it’s Ed making him warm all over.</p><p>But then his breath catches when he notices the green faux velvet tie around Richard’s collar. “Is this…” Oswald murmurs in a daze, eyes fixed and fingers reaching to stroke the material. It’s so much like Ed’s… it can’t possibly be his…</p><p>“Ah, this?” Richard asks with a big smile, adjusting the windsor knot, “It’s new! Do you like it?”</p><p>“I-”</p><p>“Oh!” Richard checks his wrist watch, then flashes Oswald a smile. “We should get going. The reservation is for seven.” And with that, he offers his arm to Oswald, and the heat spills into his face once more. He cautiously wraps a hand around the crook of Richard’s elbow, and allows himself to walk surprisingly close alongside his… <em>date.</em></p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed can feel the scowl permanently burning onto his face, the deep lines traced along his forehead as he furrows his brow. He can’t help it, really.<p>What does Oswald see in this fumbling idiot?</p><p>Next to Richard, Oswald is a goddamn <em>king,</em> regal and far, <em>far</em> too good for the likes of him. And Oswald looks absolutely <em>beautiful</em> tonight, so breathtaking that Ed can feel his cheeks heating rather embarrassingly, until he remembers that Oswald is all dolled up for <em>Richard.</em> A peacock showing his feathers to a fool.</p><p>Ed bristles as Oswald slips his arm around Richard’s with a glowing smile and is led out into the evening.</p><p>
  <em>That should be me-</em>
</p><p>He chokes suddenly, startled by himself. Of course he didn’t mean that. His face is unbearably hot, steam pooling under his collar. </p><p>Oswald is wonderful and stunning but he’s just a friend. Nothing wrong with finding a friend attractive. There’s a difference, Ed thinks, between <em>attractive</em> and <em>attracted to.</em> And anyway, that’s all this feeling is: Ed just can’t bear to lose his only friend.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald and Richard amble along in comfortable silence towards the restaurant’s double-doors, arm-in-arm, their limousine rumbling nearby (in case they need an urgent escape). Hopefully Richard hasn’t noticed that Oswald’s been vibrating rather violently, nervous energy buzzing through his veins like electricity.<p>A flash bursts, momentarily blinding Oswald, painting bright spots behind his eyes. The pair slows. Then the shouting starts.</p><p>Wonderful. Reporters, paparazzi—or whoever the hell they are—begin to swarm with raised microphones and frantic questions. Really, Oswald shouldn’t be surprised; he should have expected them to take interest in their mayor stepping out with an extraordinarily handsome man. In a city rank with crime, they have nothing more pressing to report on, apparently.</p><p>Richard, who seems to think that “personal bodyguard” is listed in his job description, takes the lead as he pushes on through the crowd, warm hand holding Oswald’s own firmly. Oswald is sure he could drive away the pests with merely a piercing glare, but he allows Richard this.</p><p>It’s incredibly endearing, anyway.</p><p>Once inside, all it takes is one look at Oswald’s face for the two of them to take precedence over the others waiting to be seated. Richard can’t seem to suppress his awe. An obviously intimidated waiter guides them to a little table in the corner, tucked between red velvet curtains and under an opulent chandelier. Nothing but the most extravagant (and expensive) for a first date.</p><p>They settle down, although Richard actually refuses to sit down until Oswald has done so first. He bites his cheek and wills himself not to turn scarlet. Richard orders a lovely red wine with the ease of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, who knows how to please a date. Oswald forces down a swoon and hides behind the rim of his water glass as Richard peruses the menu, completely unaware.</p><p>“This is a really nice place,” Richard murmurs, eyebrows raising as he scans the impressive list of salads. Probably his attempt at small talk. </p><p>Oswald hums to appease him, heart frantically fluttering as he struggles to think of something interesting to add to this conversation. He’s never been on a date before so he hasn’t the slightest idea of what he could talk about.</p><p>He’s saved from giving a real answer by the waiter, who swoops in to pour their wine and take their dinner orders, but it’s only a brief reprieve. He’s gone again too soon, and now Oswald doesn’t even have a menu to busy his trembling hands with.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>Oswald snaps into place. “Of course.”</p><p>“You just seem a little-”</p><p>“I’m perfectly fine, dear,” Oswald promises rather sharply, and he winces the second the pet name falls from his mouth.</p><p>Richard seems less than satisfied with his answer, still eyeing him with painfully tender worry, but he lets it slide and opts to drink his wine instead.</p><p>“So where do you see yourself in a few years?” Richard eventually asks. <em>This is the kind of question people ask each other on a first date?</em> “Maybe married? With kids?”</p><p>“<em>Oh,</em>” Oswald chuckles, heart pounding in his ears, “going there already?” He sets his wine glass down so Richard can’t see how violently he’s shaking.</p><p>“Sorry,” he responds bashfully, giving a shrug, “I just like to think about the future.”</p><p>“Well,” Oswald says, arching an eyebrow, “I don’t really see blue skies.” Richard offers a sympathetic smile, one he’s seen many times before, usually accompanied with candied words: <em>Don’t worry. You’ll find someone. You’ll have a happily ever after, everyone does!</em> </p><p>“I mean, I’ve certainly considered it,” Oswald continues, hoping not to paint himself a pitiful portrait, “but I won’t hold out hope.” He hastily reaches for his drink, regretting having put it down.</p><p>“So… you and Ed,” Richard says slowly, tapping a finger on his wine glass, “Is there something between you two?”</p><p>Blush bursts in Oswald’s cheeks and he nearly chokes on his wine. “Why- why would you think that?!” he laughs, but he’s too loud, too awkward.</p><p>“Is he your ex?”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Richard throws up a placating hand. “I mean- I certainly don’t care! It’s- it’s fine. I just wondered, you know, in case…”</p><p>Oswald furrows his brow. “In case what?”</p><p>Richard gestures between the two of them. “In case this…”</p><p>“Oh.” Things are moving a lot quicker than Oswald can even comprehend. He offers a nervous smile and sips shakily from his wine glass.</p><p>Thankfully, dinner is served soon enough and the tension settles as Oswald occupies himself with his fra diavolo. Still, after biting a piece of shrimp off his fork and glancing up to see Richard holding back a far too affectionate smile, he thinks he might need the Heimlich maneuver.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Richard laughs, twirling his fork, “I just think you’re really beautiful.”</p><p>Oh god, what can Oswald say to <em>that.</em> He struggles to think of a witty response but only manages a small squeak and a vivid, burning blush. He decides to stare very intently at his plate until Richard finally returns his attention to his salad.</p><p>“It’s true,” Richard eventually says, matter-of-fact and without looking up, but there’s a pleased smile creeping across his face, as though he’s satisfied by making Oswald flush peach-pink.</p><p>Oswald isn’t sure how long he’ll last being flattered like this.</p><p>“Tell me about you,” Richard begins again as he inspects a cherry tomato on his plate.</p><p>“I have no doubt the newspapers have said plenty.”</p><p>“I know what the papers say,” Richard responds, “But I want to hear it from <em>you.</em>”</p><p>Oswald supposes he cleans it up a bit, but he dives into his story. In between bites of pasta and shrimp, he anxiously discusses meeting Ed, becoming friends, becoming business partners. He pointedly does <em>not</em> mention falling in love with his Chief of Staff- after all, it’s unprofessional and absolutely none of Richard’s business. Tears in his eyes, he paints a saintly picture of his mother, to which Richard responds with a reassuring squeeze of his hand. He continues on to more objective matters: his prior life as Fish Mooney’s umbrella boy, his business, his run for mayor. He <em>does</em> omit the part about being in Arkham, which he feels a slight pang of guilt for, but he supposes <em>The Gotham Gazette</em> has done a fine job detailing his stay there, anyway. Richard seems strangely unfazed by the fact that Oswald has killed not one but many people. It makes him wonder.</p><p>Dessert arrives just before Oswald can ask Richard about <em>his</em> life.</p><p>The waiter whips out a lighter and Oswald’s cherries jubilee goes up in flames, white and red licking at the alcohol pooled around the dessert. He can’t help but worry briefly about his hairspray.</p><p>Richard gives him an excited grin from across the table as the waiter flambés his crêpes suzette. Oswald melts like the vanilla ice cream on his plate.</p><p>One minute Oswald’s sucking cherry juice off his spoon, the next, Richard’s leaning across the table, dabbing the corner of Oswald’s lips with his cloth napkin.</p><p>“I suppose I’m a terrible mess,” Oswald says between breathless laughs, already feeling the heat spilling into his face as he dips his head.</p><p>“It’s cute,” Richard assures, tucking his napkin back into his lap.</p><p>The check arrives and Oswald’s heart sinks as he realizes the night is already nearly over. Hadn’t they just sat down?</p><p>Before Oswald can really react, Richard’s hand flies out and he snatches up the check folder.</p><p>Oswald huffs an incredulous laugh when Richard uncaps the pen.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“No,” Oswald says, half-scolding, “You are <em>not</em> paying for this. Give me that.” A man with his paycheck certainly can’t afford the most lavish restaurant in Gotham.</p><p>But Richard ignores Oswald’s outstretched hand and wiggling fingers. “Too late,” he sighs, “I’m already signing it.”</p><p>“Don’t you <em>dare,</em>” Oswald giggles, launching himself forward as far as he can and stealing the check away.</p><p>“Hey!” </p><p>Oswald defiantly scratches out Richard’s half signature and, wearing a triumphant grin, scribbles his own name onto the check before thrusting the bill and his card back at the waiter. </p><p>“Um, all set?” the waiter asks hesitantly, taking the check folder as though it will bite him, “Or would you… like some more time with the bill?”</p><p>“I think he’s quite finished being stubborn,” Oswald answers with a feigned admonishing glare across the table. Richard presses a hand over his mouth to avoid making much more of a scene in front of the waiter, but his shoulders shake with stifled laughter. Brightness bubbles in Oswald’s chest. </p><p>This has turned out to be a wonderful night, afterall.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>“Wait- Eddie, what did you just say?”<p>Ed winces at the raspy crackle of her voice. “I’m sorry, Isabella. But tonight’s just not going to work out for me.”</p><p>“You said you didn’t have plans,” she mutters after a beat.</p><p>“I- I don’t,” Ed admits, pinching the bridge of his nose. How does he explain to his girlfriend that he’s too distraught by his friend going to dinner with some bozo to spend time with her?</p><p>“I don’t feel well” is what tumbles from his mouth.</p><p>Isabella sighs. “Another time, then.”</p><p>Ed hums.</p><p>“I can come over if you’d like, maybe bring some dinner-”</p><p>“No!” Too loud, too quick. “I’m- I’m going to bed right now, is what I mean.”</p><p>“It’s eight o’clock, Eddie.”</p><p>“Yes, I know. I’m just very ill.” He adds a cough to drive his point home.</p><p>There’s more crackling from the other end.</p><p>“Okay,” Isabella finally says, disappointment dripping from her lips, “we’ll just reschedule then, I guess. Maybe tomorrow?”</p><p>“Sounds good.”</p><p>“But don’t be sick again!”</p><p>“I promise.” Wait. He had plans to go to dinner with Oswald tomorrow night. He’ll have to shift that around his schedule; he can’t hold Isabella off for too long or she’ll be very displeased.</p><p>“I love you, Eddie,” Isabella says, and Ed can hear the smile in her sugar-sweet voice.</p><p>“Love you too,” he answers rather quickly. The line clicks and his heart settles, beating a slightly more comfortable rhythm.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>When Oswald and Richard finally step into the night, it feels natural for their hands to slip together, fingers lacing lovingly as they cling to one another. Oswald blushes and presses himself into his date’s side. It’s a little chilly, anyway, and the streetlamps shine bright and brilliant on the glossy, slick pavement. It must have rained while they were enjoying dinner.<p>For once, Oswald feels <em>normal.</em> Like a normal, sane man out on the town with his… <em>boyfriend,</em> someone who doesn’t have to look over his shoulder, someone who doesn’t have murdered parents and knives hidden in his boot and blood stains on his shirt cuffs.</p><p>But Richard is not that person. He’s never scrubbed red out of his shirt in the dead of night. Never brushed gun powder off his shoes. Never made a man scream so brutally as he twists his knife round and round in his gut.</p><p>They are not the same, he and Richard. And Oswald doesn’t think he can ruin him like this.</p><p>“Richard-”</p><p>“It’s still fairly early, I bet we’ll have time to-”</p><p>“Richard, wait,” Oswald pleads desperately, tugging his hand. When Richard spins around to face him, brows knitted with worry for him, Oswald finds himself suddenly choking back tears. This wonderful man has no idea what he’s getting himself into. “Before we let this get any further,” Oswald begins, and he can feel his vocal cords stretching, straining, “you need to know that I am <em>not</em> a good person.”</p><p>Richard only smiles sweetly, giving his hand a squeeze as he steps closer. “That’s not what I see.”</p><p>“You don’t know me,” Oswald gasps, a tear trickling down his cheek, “I’ve done bad things. I’ve hurt people. I can’t bring you into this.”</p><p>“I knew who you were when I first met you. I applied for this job knowing full well that the Penguin is not to be trifled with,” he reaches up, thumb stroking away the tears, “And honestly? I think you’re incredible.”</p><p>Oswald laughs restlessly, helplessly. “Are you sure-”</p><p>Richard is leaning down and kissing him full on the lips before he can say a single thing more.</p><p>And Oswald forgets how to breathe.</p><p>He’s never been kissed before and it’s so incredibly overwhelming, having such a wonderful man so close to him, that Oswald swears he might actually be (foolishly) falling for him. Perhaps his mother was wrong. Maybe life doesn’t give you just <em>one</em> true love.</p><p>Oswald finds himself whimpering when Richard pulls away, and, chasing after his lips, he sways forward into his arms.</p><p>“That was probably <em>very</em> unprofessional of me,” Richard mutters, eyebrows knitted together in mild concern, but he seems pleased as he wraps his arms around Oswald.</p><p>A laugh bubbles up in Oswald’s chest, and his hands sneak up Richard’s lapels and clutch firmly. Tear tracks already dry on his cheeks. “Screw professional,” he snorts, “After all, <em>I am</em> the boss.” Oswald gives him a smile he hopes comes across as coquettish before tugging him down and devouring him once more.</p><p>And they kiss for what feels like hours, under the streetlamps and the glittering stars and the wide, open heavens.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald returns home, feeling lighter than he has in a long time, despite his full and content stomach. Parting ways with Richard was distressing, and it made Oswald’s heart ache with longing when they pulled up to his apartment far too soon. But before slipping out of the limo, Richard turned to him, cupped his cheek with such tenderness, and ever so softly brushed their lips together. Oswald couldn’t help but giggle through the kiss- he must have seemed terribly intoxicated despite having only drank two glasses of wine. He desperately wanted Richard to stay with him, but they would see each other tomorrow anyway. It’s something he’ll look forward to.<p>Oswald smiles to himself and quietly steps into the manor, being careful of the tapping of his shoes on the marble tiles so as not to wake Ed. He shrugs off his coat, sets his cane aside, and finds that his grin only widens—<em>oh god,</em> he can’t stop smiling. His lips still tingle pleasantly and his blush only deepens.</p><p>“How did it go?”</p><p>Oswald startles, staggering a bit as he comes to an abrupt stop. There’s Ed, wearing a smooth grin, tucked into the armchair with a book and an empty cup of tea. It’s all a bit odd, him waiting around in the dim living room at this hour of night. “Edward- did you stay up to wait for me?” Oswald asks, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.</p><p>“That’s beside the point,” Ed responds, brushing him off. He places his teacup on the side table and lays down his book. “How was dinner? With Richard, I mean,” he clarifies, tone darkening upon saying the man’s name.</p><p>Candlelight flickering across Richard’s face as he gazed upon him over a glass of wine. The taste of warm, syrupy cherries on his tongue. The smell of rain in the air, the stars sparkling in the puddles on the street. Richard’s lips on his… Oswald bites his lip but he can’t suspend his smile. “It was fine-”</p><p>“Boring?” Ed finishes for him, an arrogant grin spreading across his face. He rises and seems to <em>saunter</em> closer to Oswald. “God, that man is so incredibly dull,” Ed adds, his smile fading and disdain dripping from his lips. Oswald frowns and has to bite back his retort. “It’s too bad. But I guess some things just don’t work out.”</p><p>Oswald steps back, brows pinching. <em>What happened to his sweet, worried Ed, the man who would do anything to keep him safe, to make him happy?</em> “What?” he chokes out.</p><p>Ed blinks. “Well I assumed since tonight was an absolute <em>disaster</em> you probably won’t be seeing him again,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.</p><p>It’s like a slap in the face, stinging and hot. Something about Ed’s flippant and almost <em>pleased</em> tone makes Oswald’s skin prickle. And before he can stop himself, he’s reacting in the only way he can think to. “And what <em>the hell</em> does that mean?!” he snarls, squaring his shoulders as he stares Ed down. He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, and from the way Ed’s mouth drops open and his eyes widen, Oswald doesn’t think he’ll be getting a coherent response anyway. <br/> “I’ll see him again and again if I damn well please! And you know what, Edward? I had a <em>wonderful</em> time with him!”</p><p>Ed remains stone still.</p><p>“He’s charming, handsome, gentlemanly, and- and he <em>kissed me,</em>” Oswald finishes with a satisfied smirk. Perhaps it’s foolish of him, but Oswald hopes this reveal is a stinging slap in Ed’s face. Of course Ed doesn’t feel anything for him. Of course not. Still, Oswald clings to the shred of hope that Ed is burning up inside with jealousy. And his heart skips a beat as he <em>swears</em> he can catch the slightest tightening of Ed’s jaw and the flash of envy in his eyes.</p><p>“Now that you two have gotten to know each other so well, I guess you can get married, huh?” Ed snaps. “Well, don’t come crying to me when it’s time to sign the divorce papers.”</p><p><em>Oh.</em> The ache is starting to sting Oswald far more than he’d thought. Ed isn’t just bitter, he’s <em>mean.</em> Regardless of whether he can chalk this behavior up to pure jealousy, Ed is supposed to be his friend, someone who is always there for him. “I had hoped you would be happy for me,” Oswald says quietly. <em>Is that really true, though? Perhaps he meant less happy, a little more jealous…</em> </p><p>Be careful what you wish for.</p><p>“You’re making a mistake with him” is all Ed spits out before storming away.</p><p>And Oswald feels like he could cry.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>As expected, Oswald is angry. He hasn’t spoken a single word to Ed for the past two days, but he has thrown multiple glares in his direction which cut through him like sharp ice. Ed’s definitely messed up. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about Richard being a total moron not worthy of Oswald’s time.<p>The other employees have surely started to notice the turbulence. Ed inches away from Oswald during meetings. He allows lint to accumulate on the shoulders of Oswald’s suit. On one occasion, he tries serving Oswald some tea to remind him of them—of their friendship—but Oswald smacks it off the table. Ed returns to the parlor to find Olga sweeping up broken ceramic in his wake.</p><p>So, after being targeted with yet another pointed stare from Oswald (plus a few from Zsasz as an act of solidarity), Ed decides perhaps he should give him a little more space. As he passes through the hallway, he makes sure to glare a hole into the back of Richard’s head before continuing to the sitting room. Perhaps he’ll start forming a guest list for the Founder’s Dinner (<em>leaving Richard off it,</em> he thinks with a self-indulgent cackle). Working overtime is his only hope of getting back into Oswald’s good graces.</p><p>A newspaper strewn across the end table catches his eye. He strides over, snatches it up, feels his guts sinking. Big, bold letters proclaiming <em>“New Beau for Mayor Cobblepot”</em> headline a massive photograph. It’s grainy, black and white, but it’s clear as day: Richard has Oswald gathered up in his arms as he kisses him deeply, passionately, and it makes Ed sick to his stomach. He thrusts the paper onto the table with a <em>smack</em> and, chest heaving, anger seething, he stomps out of the room, to the hallway where he knows that idiot is still doing his bookkeeping. </p><p>“Richard!” Ed snaps, making the man startle. “A word?”</p><p>“Um, of course, Mr. Nygma,” he responds, somewhat bewildered. He tucks his pen into his clipboard, equal parts confused and terrified as all the things Ed could do to him run through his tiny brain.</p><p>“I’ve seen you two together,” Ed fumes, pointing an accusing finger at Richard. Before he can choke out a response, Ed is stepping closer to him, hoping he can see the threatening flash in his eyes. “For the life of me, I cannot understand why he chose <em>you-</em>”</p><p>“I don’t believe it’s your choice to make-”</p><p>Ed lunges forward, snatching a fistful of Richard’s shirt and shoving him hard against the wall. “<em>I’m not done,</em>” he growls, and it satisfies him on some deep level to see the fear lining the man’s face.</p><p>“You’d better be good to him.”</p><p>“Wh-”</p><p>“To <em>Oswald,</em> you absolute buffoon,” Ed snarls. “If I find out you’ve hurt him in <em>any</em> way, if he even sheds <em>one single tear</em> because of you, I swear I will make you regret the day you were born!” He jabs a finger sharply into his chest, driving his point home.</p><p>“I would never-”</p><p>“I’ve killed before, don’t think I won’t do it again,” Ed hisses, “For Oswald, believe me, I would do <em>anything.</em>” He grasps Richard’s lapels and shoves him away so forcefully he stumbles.</p><p>Struggling to catch his breath, Richard hastily smooths out his suit and hurries away, throwing wide-eyed glances over his shoulder as he goes.</p><p>“Nice chatting with you,” Ed calls after him, flashing him a poisonous smirk. God, he loathes that man.</p><p>He moves to straighten his now-disheveled suit (<em>Thanks a lot, Richard</em>) and his eye catches on something tucked under his shoe.</p><p>A slip of paper, slightly crumpled, with a scrawling of ink in its folds. It must have fallen from Richard’s pocket when he and Ed had their… <em>talk.</em> Ed stoops and snatches it up.</p><p>An address, hastily scribbled. <em>404 Gunnar St.</em> A seedy part of town, one anyone looking to keep their life would want to stay away from.</p><p>With a quick glance around him, Ed stuffs the note into his pocket. Richard is up to something. He’s sure of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Apparently tulips symbolize a declaration of love... :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's Ed's time to shine when he finally gets to have dinner with Oswald. Ed gets more questions than answers regarding Richard.</p><p>Warning for abusive relationships content!! If you'd like to skip it, it's the scene when Ed returns to Isabella's apartment after having dinner with Oswald.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After months of fawning over Ed Nygma, placing him up on a pedestal, thinking that his middle name <em>must</em> be “perfect”, this is quite the slap in the face. Oswald should be used to it after that whole fiasco with Jim Gordon. He really doesn’t know why he still bothers with matters of the heart when everyone seems to see him as chopped liver.</p><p>Who knew that Barbara Kean would be the only friend (and he uses the term loosely) he has left? Of course, she had agreed to team up with him to provide security and drinks for the Founder’s Dinner mostly out of obligation, and having a conversation with her is about as easy as walking barefoot on rose thorns. Oswald was still slightly surprised he didn’t need to threaten the sanctuary of her club in order to persuade her to sit down with him and make plans for surveillance and security. <br/>And what’s possibly more shocking is the fact that this was <em>Isabelle’s</em> idea that he join forces with Barbara- and Oswald won’t deny he nearly refused to do it purely out of spite. But as the date of the event nears, Oswald can’t really risk adequate security because of his own pettiness. He’d only be hurting himself—and his reputation—if he half-assed such an extravagant dinner for Gotham’s crème de la crème.</p><p>Sipping well-needed martinis at ‘The Siren’s’, the two huddle together over documents strewn across the bar. With a pen in hand, Barbara marks red X’s all over the floor plan of City Hall, focusing most of her attention on the beautiful pavilion and courtyard which will serve as the hub for the dinner. Oswald can’t help but bicker with her at certain points, and he fights the urge to snatch the pen away and do this himself. But Barbara tuts and tells him that if he wants her help, they’re going to do it <em>her</em> way. Oswald downs his martini and sulks as she drones on and on about what drinks she’d like to serve and how you really can’t go wrong with mini cheesecakes.</p><p>It’s when Barbara finally notes his unusually snappy attitude (unusual even for him) that the conversation diverts to Oswald’s… <em>boy problems,</em> for lack of a better term. Oswald considers waving it off, pretending everything’s okay when it’s not- after all, he’d hate to cross the boundary between business and personal discussion. But then again, Barbara’s nosy enough that she’d almost definitely be interested… and she’s always been far more willing than Oswald to recognize Ed’s flaws and just as daring to point them out.</p><p>“Ozzie, honey, he’s a <em>man,</em>” Barbara reasons, raising a saucy eyebrow at him.</p><p>“So am I.”</p><p>“Well, then you should know what to expect. Most men are complete idiots when it comes to love.”</p><p>Oswald blinks. “Wh- wait, love?”</p><p>“Yes,” Barbara replies with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “Anyway, we’ll place two guards here, and here…”</p><p>Oswald absently follows the line her sharp nails trace across the floor plan, but that <em>word</em> chants in his mind. What does love have anything to do with how Ed’s acting?</p><p>Barbara reaches for her martini and leans back in her chair, eyebrows raised as she awaits a response from Oswald. “So?”</p><p>“Y- yes, yes,” he flaps a hand dismissively, “that’s fine, whatever you think is best.”</p><p>“You weren’t paying attention, were you?” she sneers, baring her teeth in a put-on smile.</p><p>“You said <em>love,</em>” he reminds shakily, feeling somewhat foolish for clinging so desperately to the thought. Not to mention, he’s not typically one to discuss his feelings so openly to someone who isn’t his mother.</p><p>“Sweetie, it sure sounds to me like Eddie’s in love,” Barbara sighs, twirling her olive pick in her martini, “and I don’t mean with that little blonde lamb.”</p><p>Oswald’s throat is so goddamn dry, he nearly chokes trying to swallow.</p><p>“By the way: you and Richard?” she continues, swirling a finger around in his face, “Not a good fit. He’s too goody two-shoes.” She scrunches up her face like she’s tasted a sour lemon.</p><p>“I don’t recall asking for your opinion on <em>that,</em> Barbara,” he hisses, standing abruptly and seizing up his security papers and floor plan.</p><p>But Barbara is unflappable. “You know,” she begins slowly, rising and following him along the bar, “Just because he’s wonderful doesn’t mean you need to fall in love with him.”</p><p>“He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man,” Oswald says desperately, like he needs to plead for someone’s approval—someone’s permission—to finally be <em>happy.</em></p><p>“Not everything,” Barbara responds, sincerity so clear in her eyes it’s painful.</p><p><em>Oh.</em> He senses where she’s going with this…</p><p>“He’s not <em>him,</em> Ozzie. He never will be.”</p><p>“Ed will never want me!” Oswald shouts, shaking his papers.</p><p>“Are you so certain of that?”</p><p>He can’t do this. He can’t risk entertaining the idea- he’s done it once (no, twice) before and it’s only ever left him feeling bitter and broken. It seems he’s always picking up the shattered pieces of his heart, and when he tries to fit them back together they’re crooked.</p><p>So he leaves before Barbara can put another thought into his mind, but returning to the mansion and seeing his Chief of Staff hardly keeps him from wondering.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The mansion seems quiet and still, waiting on the edge of a knife, despite the bustling of Oswald’s employees as they scramble to prepare for the Founder’s Dinner. None of them seem to break under this heaviness that makes the house sag. None of them except <em>Ed.</em><p>He feels it with every footstep. The floorboards creak and dip underneath him. He feels it slowing his pace, turning his bones to heavy ore with every inch he moves closer to Oswald’s office. He feels the rumble of distant thunder, the oncoming rain making him shiver.</p><p>An apology is long past due, that much Ed realizes. His heart chills when he pictures Oswald’s face: beautiful, clear eyes, cutting to his core like ice, unforgiving lines drawn deep around his fine mouth as he frowns. Ed hates that he’s done this.</p><p>Paper crinkles in his pocket. A reminder of yet another pressing matter.</p><p>He <em>needs</em> to pay a visit to this mystery address, 404 Gunnar St, but he needs Richard to stay put. Can’t risk being followed… or worse, running into him while undercover. The thought of having to wait—and of getting there too late, after Richard’s long gone—makes Ed buzz with anxiety. His legs have been shaking all day. But he has no choice.</p><p>In the meantime, he needs to push on. It’s time to face Oswald.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Several days of giving Ed the cold shoulder have left Oswald weary- he’s not used to cutting off all communication with him. If Ed hadn’t noticed the divide between them before, he most certainly does now. The tension is bitter and icy and heavy, laying thick like fog in every room Ed’s in.<p>Oswald hates this. But Ed seriously stepped out of line the other night. It’s almost like he was <em>trying</em> to hurt him, throwing knives and hoping one would hit.</p><p>That’s why, when Oswald finally emerges from his office after downing a few drinks, he’s shocked when Ed catches his arm and holds him in place. His eyes are downcast.</p><p>“Oswald I- I want to apologize. For the things I said.”</p><p>Oswald chews on his lower lip, unsure of how to react, what to say. People don’t normally apologize to him in such a sincere way. He’s more used to them crying on their hands and knees, begging to keep their lives.</p><p>“It was extremely inappropriate of me,” Ed continues, gaze held down on his shoes, hands clasped behind his back, “and it’s certainly no way to treat my best friend.” He raises his eyes to meet Oswald’s again, and there’s real remorse there, and a glowing hope that Oswald will forgive him.</p><p>And gazing into those round doe eyes, Oswald is helpless. Ed is everything to him, and he doesn’t want to lose his only friend over this. As long as he really is sincere… “Water under the bridge, Ed,” he says tenderly, laying a fond hand on his arm.</p><p>Ed’s expression instantly dissolves into one of pure relief, and he lets his arms loosen and fall to his sides. “So how about dinner? On me, of course,” he adds with a nervous laugh.</p><p>Oswald’s heart softens a bit more, his lips spreading into a gentle smile. “Alright.”</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed walks with a spring in his step. He lays out a suit early (his best pressed black one) and continues about his day with a quiet smile lingering on his lips. Oswald notices his shockingly good mood, and he offers several sweet, knowing glances throughout meetings and work. Isabella comments as well, wearing a frown that makes her nose wrinkle. Is it really so hard to believe that Ed is just happy? He tells her he’s just pleased that he and Oswald have repaired their friendship. The explanation is enough for her.<p>But as excited as he is, as Ed considers making reservations for later, he begins to regret his offer to pay for dinner. Oswald has certainly made him wealthier than he was before but his pockets are not lined with gold. This limits their dining options to the smaller, more affordable restaurants in Gotham’s downtown, the ones without the crystal chandeliers and the waiting valets and the top-notch champagne.</p><p>He tells Oswald he can’t afford the best. Asks for his opinion.</p><p>“Whichever restaurant you choose, I will be happy, Ed. As long as it’s with you.” Then Oswald chuckles, a fluttery, beautiful sound that brings a burning blush to Ed’s face.</p><p>Dinner can’t come soon enough.</p><p>Dressed in his flawless black suit, which he’s accented with a purple tie he <em>knows</em> Oswald will comment on, Ed waits for him in the parlor. He feels quite lucky when Oswald appears looking regal as ever and shyly takes his arm. They share a quiet glance and begin their trek to the limousine. Oswald’s cufflinks glint green in the evening light and catch Ed’s eyes.</p><p>As expected, they are more or less ambushed by paparazzi and Ed glows at this. He hopes Richard will pick up the paper tomorrow morning to see Oswald close at Ed’s side. Maybe he’ll burn with jealousy. Ed would love to see that.</p><p>The turn heads as they find their table. Ed’s chest swells with pride.</p><p>Then Oswald asks him to pick a wine and his heart drops. He’ll never forgive himself for lingering in that wine shop for so long and giving all of his attention to Isabella so that he never made it to dinner that night. He’d never gotten the wine he’d promised either.</p><p>But maybe now is his second chance, he thinks as he pours two glasses of an excellent red. And when Oswald smiles at him, eyes sparkling as the candlelight flickers across his face, Ed thinks this is a wonderful second chance. Although he’s not quite sure for <em>what,</em> exactly.</p><p>“How lovely,” a voice coos, soft and warm and sweet like molasses. Ed turns to the waitress, an older woman with silver hair and bright, kind eyes. “You two, taking each other out for a romantic dinner!” She hands them their menus, all the while giving them each a fond, knowing smile that makes Ed’s stomach tickle.</p><p>His fingers twitch, trembling as they crawl towards his wine glass. He laughs uneasily, casting a glance at an impossibly-relaxed Oswald. “Actually, we’re-”</p><p>“I just think it’s so sweet! How long have you two been together?”</p><p>“Three years,” Oswald says hastily with a painted-on smile.</p><p>Ed’s hand spasms as he reaches for his wine and there’s a split second where he’s holding his breath, praying for the inevitable not to happen. It does. His glass wobbles and tips, thankfully not breaking but spilling red wine on the table, down the side of the cloth, leaving an unsightly stain on the white fabric. The wine continues to drip, drip, drip painfully slow from the hem of the tablecloth and onto the floor.</p><p>“I- I’m sorry,” Ed gasps, flinching at the embarrassing crack in his voice.</p><p>“No, no,” the waitress hushes him, already crouching down with a dish rag in hand. “No big deal!”</p><p>He looks at Oswald. Oswald doesn’t look at him.</p><p>“I just want to make sure you two have a wonderful evening! Wow, three years,” she adds, mystified and delighted. Pressing a hand to her heart, she rises to her feet and continues cooing ridiculously even as she leaves their table.</p><p>Why, <em>why</em> did Oswald have to answer her? That is true that they’ve <em>known</em> each other for three years, Ed supposes, but why not extinguish the assumption immediately? Oswald’s eyes flit about the room nervously. His hands twist the napkin in his lap.</p><p>“Oswald, we should have-”</p><p>“Oh, Ed,” Oswald chuckles, finally glancing up, pink blossoming in his cheeks rather endearingly, “she’s old, let her have this.”</p><p>Ed finds it increasingly difficult not to choke on the lump forming in his throat. “You’re not worried about the- the press?”</p><p>Oswald tuts. “The press will say whatever they want. I’m not worried.” His tone is far too casual.</p><p>Dinner continues in this way: Ed agonizingly restless, Oswald making endless little comments in an attempt to break their silence. Cutlery delicately scrapes china and they eat in quiet rhythm.</p><p>“How is Isabelle?”</p><p>Ed snaps back, bowtie pasta halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t been expecting this. Now he feels obligated to ask about Richard, no matter how little he really cares. “She’s well.” His brows pinch. “I think.”</p><p>Oswald’s arched eyebrows lower at the lack of a monumental response. Not that he really cares either. “Ah,” he says, dipping his head to focus on his dinner.</p><p>“How are things with you and Richard?” Ed forces out, struggling against the urge to grimace with disgust. He briefly considers mentioning the note that had fallen from Richard’s pocket, but decides it’s best to follow the trail first and see where it leads him.</p><p>“Oh,” Oswald blushes and giggles, flapping a hand at him, “you couldn’t possibly care about that…”</p><p>“I do care!” He chokes out an encouraging laugh despite the deep ache clawing at his throat. “I want you to be happy, Oswald.” <em>Oh god,</em> he’s in the middle of a restaurant in front of the lo- the best <em>friend</em> he’s ever had and he’s on the verge of tears. But he has no choice but to keep it together- he’s just opened a can of worms for the sake of mending their relationship, he has to do whatever it takes. When Oswald prattles on and on about how wonderful Richard is, Ed forces a shaky grin onto his face. When Oswald swoons and sighs because he says no man has ever loved him this way, Ed nods and hides his quivering lips behind the rim of his glass. And then, with a breathless little giggle, Oswald says this:</p><p>“I think I’m… <em>in love!</em>”</p><p>And the fine cracks lining Ed’s heart split wide open.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Every step closer to the door of the manor leaves Ed’s stomach sinking a little more. Oswald, stoic and silent, is leaning on his arm, an act of pure cruelty unwittingly meant to torment him. But Ed still doesn’t want to let him go.<p>They reach the door too soon, but Oswald’s pace has slowed and he makes no move to leave Ed’s side. “Dinner was lovely, Ed,” he says quietly, his eyes flickering about, unsure of where to land. He’d undoubtedly noticed the shift in Ed’s demeanor towards the end of their meal, but he’s kept his concerned comments to himself, only casting uneasy glances at Ed that did not go unnoticed as probably intended. “Thank you-”</p><p>Ed tugs him into a crushing hug and Oswald lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. “You’re my best friend, Oswald,” he mumbles into his hair. A tear trickles down his nose.</p><p>“And you’re mine,” Oswald replies, face half-buried in Ed’s shoulder, hands smoothing over his back.</p><p>“I feel like I’m losing you.”</p><p>He wonders if Oswald feels the same.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>All Ed wants to do is slump into bed, sleep dreamlessly forever under the covers, smother those aching thoughts that Oswald is slipping away from him.<p>He doesn’t know why he drove back to Isabella’s apartment—out of obligation maybe—but he wishes he could stay with Oswald. Talk away the night with him, prove to himself that he still means as much to Oswald as Oswald does to him, cling desperately to that unraveling thread of hope that they have a chance.</p><p>He tosses his keys on the credenza and trudges into the dim living room. Isabella is there, waiting as always.</p><p>“Where were you?” she asks quietly. She swirls her bordeaux of red wine, painted nails clutching the glass firmly.</p><p>“I had dinner with Oswald,” Ed responds slowly, his brow furrowing at her strange behavior. He sits beside her on the couch, his posture stiff and an uncomfortable tension settling on his shoulders.</p><p>“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” she finally says blankly, her glassy eyes trained on the floor.</p><p>Ed chokes. His throat is squeezing, a coldness rushes through his chest. “<em>What?</em>”</p><p>“You are, aren’t you?” Isabella cries, throwing herself up off the sofa.</p><p>Ed stumbles after her but any soothing words slip from his tongue. His heart is sinking faster than he can stop it.</p><p>“Dear God, did you <em>ever</em> even love me? Or was it always all about <em>him?</em>”</p><p>“Isabella, of course I- I do lo-” Suddenly it’s like he has no voice, it stutters and dies. Oh dear. <em>Why can’t he say it?</em></p><p>Part of him knows. Not even that deep down, he knows.</p><p>Sharp nails latch onto his face, grip leaving stinging marks in his cheeks. “Look at me, Edward,” Isabella hisses.</p><p>His heart jumps and his blood runs cold. It’s never gotten like this before; it’s never been physical, only a few biting verbal remarks made in passing, things he can brush off. He wants to leave. <em>God,</em> he wants to run from this, from this icy feeling inside him, from this paralyzing fear. Run from Isabella and her red-painted nails.</p><p>He forces himself to look at her. A drop of sweat slides down his temple, his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“<em>Do you love him?</em>” she repeats, low and serious.</p><p><em>Does he love Oswald, the mayor, his best friend in the world, the man he would kill and die for?</em> The clock ticks painfully slow. Ed needs to remember to breathe.</p><p>She waits, eyes big and round. Fearful but icy. Demanding.</p><p>The claws fall from his face, and Ed has to suppress a gasp of relief. Isabella sobs and slumps onto the couch again, setting her wine glass down so forcefully that it sloshes onto the end table. “I suppose I can’t blame you,” she manages between shaky breaths, “he’s rich, and powerful, and- and I’m just a librarian-”</p><p>Ed moves slowly to kneel before her, trembling hands hovering over hers, unsure of what to do. <em>Does he even want to?</em> He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Isabella,” he says gently, finally grasping her hands, “I do… love you.”</p><p>
  <em>This doesn’t feel right. What is right?</em>
</p><p>She lifts her glittering doe eyes to meet his and offers a weak smile.</p><p>“You might not have purses lined with cash or a high profile career, but,” Ed breathes deeply, “that doesn’t matter to me.” <em>No, it doesn’t matter. That part is true. Maybe she really could make him happy.</em></p><p>“Well, alright then,” Isabella whispers, her smile spreading as she seems to finally believe him. She leans down and gives him a kiss on the cheek, and then they rise together, hands still joined. Isabella sighs happily, tears already drying and a healthy glow returning to her complexion. “Would you like some tea?” she asks in a bright tone.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Ed watches her walk to the kitchen with a spring in her step. There’s an uncomfortable heaviness settling in his chest. The smile slips from his face.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed is distant. His thoughts stray far off several times throughout the day, only to snap back when he feels a light hand on his shoulder. Oswald seems to have noticed that something is bothering him, but he refrains from asking what. They don’t have that kind of close relationship anymore. Ed hates it. It hurts.<p><em>Close together but miles apart.</em> And they’re barely near each other anymore, with Oswald busying himself with work and spending nearly every waking hour with Richard.</p><p>So Ed seeks comfort with Isabella (who has been extra sweet these past few days), hoping he’ll fall back into his routine and everything will return to normal- and that he’ll <em>feel</em> normal. At breakfast he sips his coffee and pushes eggs around his plate while Isabella tries out a few new riddles on him (all of them too easy). He reaches for the morning paper but she doesn’t like it when he reads it aloud to her. She’d rather avoid the stress of the daily news and instead discuss their love and future, a smile playing on her lips as she stirs her ginger tea.</p><p>Then Ed goes to work. Isabella goes with him on some days. Other days, she arrives just in time for Ed’s lunch hour, and Oswald seemingly disappears before she even sets foot over the threshold. Ed always notices. So he allows himself to be swept up in Isabella, his distraction. But more and more he finds himself looking into her familiar hazel eyes and wishing they’ll flash to that beautiful, pale green he’s grown so fond of. It strikes him, suddenly, that he’s never actually told Oswald how stunning, enchanting, <em>lovely</em> his eyes really are. How comforting they are.</p><p>When he sees Oswald held in Richard’s arms, the two of them sharing not-so-discreet kisses in the corner of the room, Ed craves nothing more than to go to him, to gather him up in his arms and weep on his shoulder. Or to brutally gut Richard on the spot. But he doesn’t think Oswald would look too kindly on him after that.</p><p>The only mercy here is that Richard is finally distracted, all wrapped up in Oswald. Ed extracts himself from the situation. Little slip of paper rustling in his pocket, he slips away unnoticed to 404 Gunnar St.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>His hands grip the steering wheel firmly, his knuckles whitened, his fingers squeezing. Ed wishes to god that Richard had chosen a less… shady place to do his scheming. The streets grow narrower, darker. Cracks in the pavement turn to deep grooves, turn to treacherous potholes. People scurry about in the shadows. He’s not far from the Narrows.<p>And there it is. 404 Gunnar St- a ramshackle wooden structure that looks like it’s been here far longer than the crumbling brick buildings it’s wedged between.</p><p>Ed does <em>not</em> want to get out of the car.</p><p>But then there’s a flicker of fire before his eyes. The memory of a teacup warming his hands. Oswald’s worried eyes. Throat straining and sore, he’d promised Oswald that he would do anything for him. That he could always count on him and on their friendship.</p><p>He has to do this. For Oswald.</p><p>He turns the key and switches off the ignition. The car rumbles and fades to silence. He steps out, careful to push the door shut gently behind him, and with the most stealth he can muster he treads onward. Slivers of sunlight stripe the narrow building, highlighting brownish spots of moss on the faded wood. The door is falling off its rusted hinges. Cracked shards of glass lay in the empty window sills and crunch underfoot.</p><p>It’s light enough inside that Ed doesn’t need to bother with a flashlight. The faint wash of the sun does a fine job of illuminating the empty, open rooms, laden with dust and cobwebs. Ed feels the urge to cough at the sight.</p><p>He steps cautiously past the doorway, past the fallen door which had broken at the hinges the moment he gave it the slightest push. There’s a stairway to his right, but it’s collapsed in on itself. Ed figures he’ll stick to the downstairs despite the warped and crooked flooring that feels like it’s about to give way any second.</p><p>What could Richard possibly be doing in this hellhole? Ed finds his mind drifting to the knife in his pocket as he peers out across the rooms. Time to find out.</p><p>The first room is easy enough, just an open space with faded marks on the floors suggesting where furniture used to sit. It’s hard to imagine anyone has ever lived here. Ed wrinkles his nose in disgust. Starting at the wall closest to him, he presses his hands to the panels, knocks gently on the trim to feel for hollowness. He works his way along each wall, hoping to discover some secret compartment, and is mildly disappointed when he reaches the last panel and finds it’s just as solid as the previous ones.</p><p>So Ed continues on to what apparently used to be a kitchen, judging by the rough wood cabinets lining the wall and back corner of the house. Cringing, curling in on himself, he flings open the cabinet doors one by one, praying each time he won’t be met with a pile of rats or a web of thousands of spiders. They’re all empty. <br/>Ed huffs, frustrated. This might take some time—precious time that Ed fears he can’t afford to lose, not with Richard likely closing in on him. He paces back towards the center of the rooms, chewing his lip. </p><p>The floorboards creak suspiciously under his shoe. He freezes. He recognizes that particular groan of old wood, the dip and bend of it as it struggles against the pressure of his foot. He’s certainly no stranger to concealing things under loose boards. He’d kept evidence from his crimes—brainstorming notes, leftover trinkets, even Miss Kringle’s cracked glasses—hidden in plain sight until he managed to safely get rid of them.</p><p>His heart thumps and he drops down. With no crowbar, he’s left to pry the boards up by wedging his fingers between the cracks. It gives way with minimal effort, thankfully. It makes sense that it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle, he supposes: by the state of Richard’s perfectly manicured hands, Ed wouldn’t think he’s had to do dirty work of any kind.</p><p>Clicking his flashlight on, Ed peers into the darkened crevice. A large manila envelope. Mundane but somehow menacing, tucked away under the half-rotten floors of this dilapidated shack. <em>Looks like Richard got mail.</em> Fingers trembling, itching to see what’s inside, Ed plucks it out from the little hiding compartment and unseals it.</p><p>The first thing that catches his attention is a memo, typed on blank paper: <em>G is not happy. You’re too close. Submit report #B113OC at once or we will terminate your services.</em></p><p>So Richard is a paid worker, hired by this “G” person. But for what? And why?</p><p>Ed stuffs the note in his pocket. Then he turns his attention to the next items in the envelope: a thin stack of files for people whose names he recognizes from the growing guest list for the Founder’s Dinner. A sheet or two of paper for each person, including only brief descriptions of their history. Presumably something “G” expects Richard to look into further. Ed snorts. Figures this jackass shows up right when they start planning such an important event.</p><p>He thumbs through the files.</p><p>And he stops cold when he sees those eyes. Pale, piercing, gazing up at him from the little photograph paperclipped to a file. This is Oswald’s Arkham mugshot. Why is this in here? Ed squints to read the card Oswald’s holding. <em>Prisoner B-113.</em></p><p>B-113. Where did Ed just see that- </p><p>Oh. Report #B113OC. OC… Oswald Cobblepot? Ed sucks in a breath, heart hammering so hard he can feel the throbbing pulse in his neck. Oh, no. It’s about Oswald, of course it is. And this means he’s being watched.</p><p>But <em>why?</em> And who is “G” and why are they unhappy? Yet the question that burns the brightest remains: <em>Who the hell is Richard Gibson?</em></p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>“Oswald!” Ed shouts as he bursts through the doors, “I need to speak with you, it’s urgent-”<p>A shriek tears through the walls. Ed jolts, runs. Oh god, it can’t be too late, Richard can’t have gotten to Oswald yet-</p><p>But he’s there, <em>thank god,</em> his hair a frazzled mess, a prominent vein drawn up his forehead. Ed’s shoulders sag with overwhelming relief.</p><p>“It’s gone!” Oswald wails, throwing his arms out.</p><p>“Os- <em>Oswald,</em>” Ed soothes, grasping his shoulders gently to hold off the impending meltdown, “you need to breathe.” Buzzing electricity vibrates under his palms- Oswald is shaking terribly.</p><p>“It’s gone! It was there before,” Oswald gasps, driving his fist down, “and now it’s not-”</p><p>“Oswald,” Ed interrupts firmly, “what’s missing?” He presses his thumbs into the tendons of his shoulders, carefully rubbing away the tension pulling the muscles taut.</p><p>“Documents! Important ones for the Founder’s Dinner!” Oswald shrieks.</p><p>“<em>What</em> documents, Os?”</p><p>“Barbara and I sat down and plotted out all the security checkpoints, all the guard stations-” Oswald half-sobs, cutting himself off. “Ed, if someone stole those, they’ll know exactly where our weak points are, they’ll be able to crash the dinner… Do you know how terribly that could damage my reputation?”</p><p>It’s all too easy. Richard (if that even is his real name) showing up in the nick of time to “help” with the Founder’s Dinner planning? Important security documents disappearing into thin air? Ed doesn’t even need to catch Richard at the scene of the crime to know it was him. It <em>had</em> to be him. There’s no one else.</p><p>Oswald’s just begun stamping his foot in frustration when Ed starts to fear for his blood pressure. “Oswald, <em>Oswald, stop it,</em>” he gives his upper arms a little squeeze, “Oswald, listen to me.”</p><p>He grits his teeth together and tips his chin up, staring along his nose at Ed.</p><p>“We’ll find it, Oswald. I promise you, we will fix this.” And he steps so close that he can feel the tip of Oswald’s pointed nose touch his collarbone, and can feel the harsh puffs of his breath softening as they brush his neck. Consumed by the heat of his closeness and feeling just a bit dizzy, Ed leans down and ever so gently presses a feather-light kiss to his brow.</p><p>And Oswald sucks in a hitching breath.</p><p><em>Oh god.</em> Did Ed really just do that? He must have. His lips are tingling and the sweet, bright scent of Oswald’s pomegranate lotion clings to his nose.</p><p>“Oswald?”</p><p>Ed hurriedly steps back, pointedly avoiding those beautiful pale eyes, so that scheming, two-faced <em>moron</em> Richard can rush in and save the day. Oswald even reaches for him, albeit after several moments of keeping his intense gaze on Ed.</p><p>“What happened, my love?” All Ed can focus on are Richard’s hands, how they smooth over Oswald’s arms, how they stroke his cheek so tenderly. Lying, traitorous bastard touching <em>his</em> Oswald-</p><p>“Oh, you know me,” Oswald says, flapping his hand (and no, Richard doesn’t know him. <em>Ed</em> knows him). “Just letting the little things get to me, I suppose.” He laughs, forced and uneasy.</p><p>“You’re overworking yourself,” Richard says softly. Ed slips his hand into his pocket. His fingers graze the cold blade. “<em>Please</em> take some time off, Oswald. An hour, even.”</p><p>“Oh, I suppose I should,” Oswald sighs fretfully.</p><p>Ed can’t kill him now. Oswald would never forgive him.</p><p>“You’d be better planning the Founder’s Dinner if you’d take care of yourself, my love.”</p><p>Ed’s fingers close around the knife, the blade cutting into his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s seething.</p><p>Oswald hums and gives Richard a nauseating peck on the lips. “You’re right, my dear.”</p><p>“How about we go out for a bit? Just you and me?”</p><p>
  <em>No no no no no no-</em>
</p><p>Ed steps close, so close he thinks Richard actually steers away from him. “Actually, Oswald, I need to talk to you, it’s important-”</p><p>“We’ll talk later, Ed, I promise,” Oswald assures with a sweet little smile. “Just remind me.”</p><p>“Oswald, please-”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Ed, but Richard is right,” he says, dismissive and completely blind, already turning away and winding his arm around this cheating, lying excuse for a human being. “I really need some time to collect myself.”</p><p>They leave. Ed lets them, there’s no use going in circles: <em>Oswald, I need to talk to you. Later, Ed. Right now, Oswald. I’m sorry, Ed, I’d rather go gallivanting about with this ridiculous, deceitful idiot I’m suddenly in love with.</em> Ed will follow at a close distance when he knows he won’t be noticed.</p><p>His hand is still in his pocket, his fingers stinging and the knife clutched tight.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The skies seem brighter, the sun shining out clear as the clouds drift away. Sharing an hour or two of quiet with Richard as they sipped their tea has left Oswald feeling surprisingly light. He’d nearly forgotten what had him so upset earlier until Richard mentioned it again, kindly reassuring him that they would find the documents, and that if security for the Founder’s Dinner was still a concern they could surely work something else out.<p>Oswald almost wishes he hadn’t returned to the mansion.</p><p>He’s hobbling along down the hallway, mind running quickly through a list of things he really should get done today whether he likes it or not, when he sees <em>her.</em></p><p>Isabelle has a hand wrapped around the handle as she pulls Oswald’s office door shut behind her. Her grace and delicacy seems to deteriorate as she hurriedly steps away as though the door has burned her.</p><p>And then her eyes sweep the hallway before flitting sharply over and finding his. Oswald finds himself rooted to his place, fingers twitching on his cane, wrapping tightly around the metal bird skull. Not a day goes by that he regrets fashioning it with a knife. </p><p>“Isabelle.”</p><p>A slow smile spreads across her face. “Oh! Mr. Mayor, I apologize. This mansion is like a maze, I always get lost!” She presses a hand to her heart. “Just looking for the bathroom!”</p><p>She’s been in his office before. She knows where it is. For god’s sake, Ed’s given her a tour of the whole goddamn house. <em>She’s lying.</em> A cold chill shudders through Oswald. He offers a weak nod. “Of course.” <em>Let her get away with the lie, the little snake. Can’t have her being… concerned about him.</em><br/>And then she’s stepping towards him, slowly, carefully, predatory in a way that makes Oswald desperately resist the urge to slink away. He holds his ground, ice flooding his veins.</p><p>“Silly me,” Isabelle says, quiet and cool as those unsettling hazel eyes bore into him.</p><p>It’s only when she strolls past him that Oswald realizes his breath had been caught and held, a worm pierced on a fishing hook. When he finally has the courage to return to his office, he half-expects to find the missing security documents laid out atop his desk, waiting for him. But he doesn’t, and everything is untouched as it was before.</p><p>So when a few days later Oswald finds those documents stuffed into a locked drawer and tucked under countless other files, he doesn’t give it much thought. He must have simply misplaced them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Someone tries to get Oswald's attention. Ed finally finds the shocking answer he's been looking for.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are times that Ed latches onto a word, almost unconsciously, and annoyingly so. A word that repeats over and over in his mind so much that it clouds his every waking moment and leaves him restless at night. He can feel his brain spinning, whirring with it almost nonstop, like a broken record player. Scratch, repeat. Scratch, repeat. Scratch, repeat. It crawls under his skin and burrows into his skull, and all Ed hears all day long is, <em>Richard lied. He’s lying.</em> It threatens to spill from his lips each time he forgets to speak carefully.</p><p><em>Oswald, he’s lying. Richard is lying.</em> It would be so easy. But Ed is so afraid.</p><p>Over breakfast, Oswald shows Ed his new tie pin—a gift from the liar. It’s gold filigree and dainty and entirely <em>not</em> Oswald’s style. Ed nearly tells him then, glaring at that hideous little pin, but Oswald is too busy gushing and sighing as he sips his morning tea (when did he start drinking vanilla?). And Oswald wouldn’t believe him anyway. Not yet.</p><p>He dreams of strapping Richard to a table, of clawing and carving and cutting a confession out of him. Maybe he could even get away with it, hide the blood stains on his shirt cuffs-</p><p>No. Oswald is too sharp, he’d find out one way or another. Time. Ed needs time, and then Oswald will see. Just hold on a little longer.</p><p>Three days. It’s all they have left, yet it still seems like there’s so much to prepare for the Founder’s Dinner. Ed checks his to-do list and finds that most of the items are crossed off and taken care of. He looks in the mirror and tells himself to relax.</p><p>But of course, there’s the matter of Isabella. He knows she feels bad for being so… <em>forceful</em> with him the other night when she discovered he’d had dinner with Oswald- she apologized profusely, told him she shouldn’t have let her jealousy and fear get the best of her, and promised she wouldn’t let it happen again. Even despite her sincerity, Ed has been restless every moment he’s with her. Maybe even apprehensive. He spent last night at the mansion, which he does often already, but for the first time, Isabella actively sought him out there without being invited to stay overnight. Terribly unsettled, Ed plastered on a smile, threw back the sheets, and let her slip into bed next to him. He didn’t sleep a wink.</p><p>Ed drowns himself in Oswald’s problems—namely the one to do with Richard—and tries to forget. He slumps down at his desk and just stares at his papers, pen held loosely in hand (he has to get <em>some</em> work done before taking off again). Mountains of elegant white and gold invitation cards pile up all around him, all personally and caringly signed by Oswald and ready to be sent out. That’s one thing he could do easily enough: drop them off at the post office. It’s the least he could do after Oswald diligently carved an hour out of his day to inscribe them.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald is more than happy to take the day off- after all, it gives him the chance to curl up on the couch with Richard, to gaze out the window at the soft gray clouds and misty rain and be glad that he’s cuddled next to a man who loves him. Of course, before allowing himself a minute of relaxation (much to Ed’s dismay) he had spent the whole morning painstakingly signing each and every invitation for the Founder’s Dinner. He would have preferred a typed signature rather than fresh ink, but he needs to maintain an aura of politeness, especially with those people high-and-mighty. If he hadn’t forced himself to do it the moment he awoke, it never would have gotten done. And it’s a relief, anyway, to have the cards ready to be sent out, and Oswald feels a little lighter.<p>He winces, curling and uncurling his fingers, rubbing his sore wrist. A hot cup of tea might be nice to warm his aching tendons.</p><p>Instead, he feels a warm, soft hand gently take hold of his lower arm, and then the careful press and kneading of thumbs into his tense wrist. He nestles closer to Richard’s side.</p><p>“Carpal tunnel,” Oswald says woefully, although he has to bite back a smile at the feather-light tickle of Richard’s fingertips. </p><p>“Then it’s a good thing you’re taking the day off,” Richard replies, focused intently on soothing the pain away. “The only thing you’re using this hand for today is holding tea, and-” he pauses, “holding my hand, maybe.”</p><p>The flutter of Oswald’s heart only quickens. “I could do that.”</p><p>He leans in for a kiss and is met with enthusiasm. He’ll never tire of that warm, welcoming plushiness of Richard’s lips, or the gentle suction as they slot perfectly together, or the way he smiles against him and brushes a thumb across his cheek. Oswald only hopes Olga isn’t spying- she’s caught the two of them red-handed a few times already and has made her displeasure apparent with loud harrumphs. And Ed… Oswald knows Ed thinks he’s been spending too much time with Richard, not just from the glares at Oswald’s boyfriend but from the way Ed always seems to screech to a halt, spin on his heel, and storm from the room whenever they’re in an embrace. </p><p>These days, it doesn’t make Oswald quite as angry as it does sad. He’s not sure why. Perhaps part of it is due to the fact that Ed seems to be spending less and less time at home, instead always running off for reasons strange and unknown. Even Isabelle seems perturbed; she’d intruded on the sanctity of Oswald’s office yet again to pester him about Ed’s whereabouts and intentions. The question presses on his mind nonstop… and so does the memory of the <em>kiss.</em> Oswald feels a bit foolish for thinking of it as something monumental, as if it was anything more than a peck on his forehead just to calm him. But still he can’t take his mind off the feeling: close, intense heat, followed by the warm press of Ed’s lips. Even now, the sensation lingers on his brow.</p><p>Yet… a loving arm tightening around him draws him back to this moment. This moment where he’s with a man he <em>knows</em> loves him, and whom he thinks he really does love too. A kiss is dotted against his temple.</p><p>Oswald hums softly, and he’s happy. “I suppose we really can’t just sit here all day, can we?” he asks, breaking the contented quiet.</p><p>“There’s actually-” Richard sucks in a breath as if trying to calm himself, and there’s a hint of worry swimming in those comforting brown eyes of his, “There’s something I need to… discuss with you.” He takes Oswald’s hands into his.</p><p>The languid patter of rain against the window becomes a pelting clatter. Somewhere, thunder rolls and rumbles.</p><p>Oswald swallows roughly and giggles despite the frantic intensity of his heartbeat. “Are you- you’re not <em>breaking up</em> with me, are you?” He feels small, so small. He wants to retract his hands now, they feel so out of place, so unwanted held in Richard’s. He knows he hasn’t shed a tear (thankfully) but he can already feel the heat stinging in his eyes, the pressure building across the bridge of his nose, the aching in his throat.</p><p>“Hey, hey,” Richard’s voice floats back to him and a warm hand cups his cheek. He’s safe again, loved again. “Of course not! Of course not- it’s nothing <em>bad,</em> my love.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I mean, I really <em>hope</em> it’ll be good news-”</p><p>A phone buzzes. Not Oswald’s- his is upstairs. Richard’s hand trails to his pocket. He pulls out the vibrating phone, glances briefly at the number on the tiny, glowing screen, then stuffs it back into his pocket.</p><p>“Do you want to answer that?” Oswald asks slowly, studying the odd look in Richard’s eyes, the new paleness in his face.</p><p>“No, no. Not important.” There’s a tremor in Richard’s hands, one Oswald can feel as they squeeze his own. “What <em>is</em> important is that-”</p><p>He chokes as though a thorn has caught in his throat.</p><p>“Richard?!”</p><p>Eyes brimming and red, he waves a hand at Oswald. “I’m okay,” he manages, “I’m okay, just-”</p><p>“Nervous?” Oswald offers with an unsure little smile, butterflies fluttering in his ribcage. He has an idea of where this conversation is headed.</p><p>Richard nods, a quick and jerky movement. With a fond sigh, Oswald turns their clasped hands over and strokes gently with his thumbs. “Darling,” Oswald cajoles softly, tilting his head to catch Richard’s fallen eyes, to bring him back to him.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry. I just- I don’t know if I can do this-”</p><p>“You <em>can. Please.</em>”</p><p>“Alright, alright. Okay,” Richard repeats, nodding to himself over and over as though it will summon his courage once again.</p><p>Oswald blushes. The man is so flustered all because of <em>him.</em></p><p>“Okay, um. Oswald.” He shifts to face him more fully. </p><p>Oswald continues pressing soothing circles into his hands. “Yes?”</p><p>“This probably doesn’t come as a surprise,” he laughs, a nervous yet gentle sound, “but I- I love you. I’m <em>in</em> love with you, Oswald.”</p><p>He’s not surprised, of course, but he can’t help the exhilarating rush of fresh air that fills his lungs, the ecstatic hitching of his heart. “<em>Oh,</em>” he giggles breathlessly, his hand flying up to press over his chest and feel the frantic beating that thrums through his palm. He’s always dreamed of this moment.</p><p>“I hope that you…”</p><p>“Yes!” Oswald exclaims. “Yes, of course, I- I love you, too, of course!”</p><p>His boyfriend’s answering smile is bright enough that Oswald forgets the rain and rolling thunder.</p><p>Richard pulls him close, and Oswald can feel how his chest rises heavily and falls slowly and steadily, like he’s breathing his own sigh of relief. Oswald’s fingers find their way to his soft hair and he strokes gently, inhales the faint scent of vanilla lingering there. He’s almost content to spend the whole day here, wrapped up in Richard’s strong arms, his aching head resting on his shoulder, until… </p><p>He thinks about Ed. Again. He can’t help it. He thinks about how distracted Ed’s been and he thinks about the disturbing smudge of pink lipstick he’d spotted on his collar during breakfast. What was even more concerning about it was the fact that Ed had spent the night at the manor—meaning he must have quietly invited Isabelle into his bedroom. Blushing, heart stinging, Oswald had pointed out his new tie pin, rubbing in the fact that it’s a gift from Richard. He wishes Ed had reacted with more than just an acknowledging grin. He wishes Ed wouldn’t run from him when even he knows they’re drifting apart. He wishes-</p><p>“I- is something wrong?”</p><p>“Oh it’s just-” Oswald pulls back a bit, flaps a hand dismissively and heaves a sigh, “It’s Ed. He’s been acting strange lately. Rather glum, always pulling that disappearing act.”</p><p>Richard brushes his knuckles against his cheek. “I think planning the Founder’s Dinner has been wearing on everyone. <em>Especially</em> you.”</p><p>“Perhaps. But it only seems to have gotten to him these past few weeks. He was… well, he was acting <em>normal</em> for a while.”</p><p>“Until I got here,” Richard concludes quietly, mostly to himself.</p><p>“What? No, Richard-”</p><p>“He doesn’t like me. At all,” Richard exhales an unsettled laugh.</p><p>Oswald briefly considers trying to deny it but resists giving him a look of feigned shock, knowing it will be of no use.</p><p>“I don’t think he likes…” Richard trails off, running a hand through his hair and tugging anxiously at the wavy strands, “Well, I don’t think he’s happy we’re… together.”</p><p>“Trust takes time, my dear,” Oswald says, trying to be encouraging but knowing he falls short. And then he adds, barely thinking at all before opening his mouth: “And I think he misses me.”</p><p>“Oswald, does he- does he have feelings for you?”</p><p>That’s certainly enough to jumpstart Oswald’s heart. His hand flies up to his mouth and he chews his nails relentlessly. “No!” he laughs uneasily, too loudly. “No, why would he? He’s with Isabelle, anyway- certainly he doesn’t-”</p><p>“<em>Oswald.</em>” His fingers lightly brush Oswald’s. </p><p>Oswald withdraws the hand from his lips, nails bitten ragged. “What?”</p><p>The cutest little dimples dot the corners of Richard’s smile. “You’re so flustered about this!”</p><p>Oswald blushes furiously, feeling somewhat like he’s sitting right under the sun. “I am not!” he squeaks futilely. </p><p>“Oh, it’s adorable,” Richard coos, and Oswald barely has time to suck in a calming breath before he’s leaning down for another kiss.</p><p>The subject is dropped completely (thank god) and all Oswald needs to focus on is the warmth and comfort of being tucked against his boyfriend’s side and the drumming of rain all around. If only he could set aside his worries about Ed, and if only he could ignore the aching pit in his heart that reminds him.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald continues about his day fretting and almost obsessively gazing out the window at the front walkway. All there is is rain pattering the stones, Richard’s warm hands resting heavy on his shoulders, and no sign of Ed.<p>He paces the mansion. Drains the teacup Richard passes to him and then helps himself to a glass of wine, the one thing that might actually soothe his frayed nerves. Richard tries to persuade him to sit down and give his leg a rest, but there’s an overwhelming restlessness trembling in his chest. He can’t relax. He kisses the man who loves him and continues to wait.</p><p>When Ed finally comes crashing through the front door, suit thoroughly soaked through with rain and hair plastered against his head, Oswald’s heart lurches. Water rolls from Ed’s shoulders like little pearls and pools on his beloved hardwood floors but he doesn’t care. He’s here at last and he looks impossibly… <em>handsome.</em></p><p>Now Ed’s shrugging off his coat, running his fingers through the dripping strands of his hair, and glancing around the foyer as if looking for someone.</p><p>And their eyes meet. And Oswald doesn’t know what to say, or what to ask of him, or how to make him stay, just this once.</p><p>Ed pulls something from his breast pocket. “Just thought I would bring this to you on my way in. I know your boyfr- <em>Richard</em> is probably waiting for you.” Ed speaks quickly, as though he doesn’t want to get caught up in conversation, and the instant he presses a wrinkled envelope into Oswald’s hands, he’s about ready to take off again.</p><p>But Ed had told Oswald, that night they returned home from dinner solemn and silent, that he felt like he was losing him. And Oswald feels the same, he feels like- no, he <em>knows</em> he’s losing Ed, and he can’t bear to see that happen.</p><p>“Wait, Ed,” Oswald says hurriedly, hand flying out to snag his suit sleeve. He catches a slight upturn of his lips as he whirls around. Rain clings to his eyelashes. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Just peachy.” And there’s that forced, tight-lipped grin again. <em>Please don’t be gone already, Ed, please-</em> “Are you going to open that?”</p><p>Changing the subject, of course. Even if Oswald’s not going to get an answer out of Ed, at least he’s curious enough to wander closer and peer intently at the parcel in his hands. Oswald eyes him a moment longer before tucking a finger under the envelope flap and gently prying it open.</p><p>Countless delicate little petals burst from the envelope and flutter between his fingers. The bright pink flowers crinkle and turn to dust under his shoes.</p><p>Oswald crinkles his nose. <em>What the hell?</em></p><p>“Oh my,” Ed breathes thoughtfully, and he stoops to brush a few dainty petals into his palm.</p><p>“What the- what is this? Ed?” Oswald finally manages. He’s inching closer and closer to pure anger- whoever is playing this ridiculous game and mailing him dried flowers had better fess up.</p><p>“Fascinating. Concerning, but fascinating.” He picks through the petals in his hand, strokes them, even gives one a little tear as if testing to see that it’s real.</p><p>“What does it mean?”</p><p>Ed seems to brighten impossibly more. “Actually, there’s a <em>Sherlock Holmes</em> story—”The Five Orange Pips”—in which people received orange pips as an omen-”</p><p>“Ed, these are not seeds. They’re <em>flower petals,</em>” Oswald hisses anxiously, “So what do <em>flower petals</em> mean?”</p><p>“It depends.”</p><p>“On?”</p><p>“On the type of flower. But I can’t identify these, they’re too crushed,” Ed confesses, frowning into his hand before defeatedly brushing the petals back into the envelope.</p><p>“But Ed,” Oswald chuckles anxiously, “you’re the smartest man in Gotham!”</p><p>“I <em>may</em> be the smartest man in Gotham, but I’m no florist.” He winks, then strides over to the coat rack to slip on his still-dripping jacket. So he’s leaving again.</p><p>“Ed, wait, please just-”</p><p>His eyebrows raise in expectation.</p><p><em>Don’t leave again.</em> Oswald can’t say that though. “Could I… come with you?”</p><p>“Os,” he chuckles, mouth melting into a warm smile, “it’s your day off. I really doubt you want to be out in the rain.”</p><p>“This is how I want to spend my day off,” he inhales deeply, “with you.”</p><p>“We’ll do something together, Os. But another time. When it’s not raining, and when you’re not getting weird mail.” He brandishes the envelope before tucking it into his coat.</p><p>“O- oh. Right.”</p><p>“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Ed says, and he slips out the door and into the downpour before Oswald can manage another word.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald has gotten wonderfully clingy now that Ed’s been dashing about searching for evidence of Richard’s lies. Although… his investigation has proved to be more difficult than he’d thought. His trip to City Hall turned out to be fruitless; citizenship records only date back two years, and since Richard is likely new to Gotham, no sign of him turned up. One night, bolt cutters in hand, Ed snapped the lock and slipped into the GCPD records room to flip through officer files, crime reports, court transcripts, anything that would point him in the right direction. Again, nothing. But he was not about to fail now, not when Oswald needed him. Hell, he even posed as a psychiatrist and prowled around the hallways of Arkham for a few hours, though in all the file cabinets he’d searched, he hadn’t found a single scrap of paper with Richard’s name on it. Of course, there’s the definite possibility that “Richard Gibson” is merely an alias, but Ed scanned countless inmate photos and found no one who looked even remotely similar to the man. Continuous dead ends have left Ed discouraged.<p>But now, he has <em>the flower petals.</em> He must admit it’s strange for Richard to bother mailing what is likely a death omen to Oswald, but maybe it’s his idea of sly cleverness. Too bad he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought and Ed instantly pinned him for the crime. If Richard can give Oswald tulips knowing full well they signify a declaration of love, there’s no doubting his intentions in sending those little petals. What an absolute fool of a man and an incompetent villain.</p><p>The anticipation and pressure of the situation has made Ed increasingly impatient in dealing with the florist. When she tries to talk him into buying roses for his significant other (<em>“you must have one, you’re too handsome to be single!”</em>), he briefly considers tugging open his coat so she can catch a glimpse of the gun tucked away in his holster. He thinks better of it.</p><p>“I’m not interested in buying anything,” Ed tells the florist as she tries yet again to lead him over to a display of pastel-dyed roses. “I’d just like you to tell me,” he plucks Oswald’s envelope from his pocket, “what these signify.”</p><p>“Oh my,” she mutters as Ed sprinkles the petals into her palm. “You don’t… happen to have any whole flowers? Or buds?”</p><p>Ed grimaces.</p><p>“Alright,” she says with a drawn-out sigh, her shoulders dropping. “But I can’t guarantee 100% accuracy.”</p><p>“Whatever you can offer me.”</p><p>She hums, unimpressed, and lifts a magnifying glass. There’s a long pause as she studies the petals carefully, pushing them around and turning them over. The torrent of rain splatters against the glass windows above and drowns the contemplative silence.</p><p>Ed taps his fingers on the counter. “Anything?”</p><p>“I would guess they’re from a rhododendron,” she answers slowly, her brow furrowing as she continues her critical examination. “Big plant. Beautiful, too, and blooms wonderfully in the spring-”</p><p>“Yes, but what do they <em>mean?</em>” Ed repeats, that impatient edge in his tone (which he had been trying to hold back) now sharp and obvious.</p><p>But she’s not as dull as Ed had assumed, and she shoots him a rather pointed glare as she reaches under the counter and produces a thick binder of laminated pages. She tuts to herself and flips through to the “R” section, then taps on the photo of a rhododendron.</p><p>“Right here,” she announces, tone holding a newfound sharpness. “It says… <em>oh.</em>”</p><p>“What?” Ed’s breath catches at her sudden change in demeanor, at the concerned frown that etches into her face.</p><p>“It says rhododendron symbolizes ‘danger’ or ‘to beware.’”</p><p>The blood drains from his face and runs cold in his arms. “Wh- what?”</p><p>“I don’t know who sent you these, but they’re probably not your friend.” She empties the petals into the envelope. “Will that be all for today?”</p><p>With shaking hands, Ed takes the parcel and nods numbly. His mind is running miles and miles a minute. He stumbles on the way out the door.</p><p>So this is Richard’s grand plan, this is why he’s forced his way into their lives, into their home. All this time that he’s been wooing Oswald, holding his arm, kissing him, he’s been playing with his food. He intends to kill him.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>It’s when Richard steps out to go buy the scones Oswald’s been craving that the telephone begins ringing incessantly. The first time, Oswald hardly moves a muscle. Once the ringing stops, he drops his head back onto the fluffy pillows and continues nesting. It’s his day off, he shouldn’t have to have a chat with some idiot over the phone. Then it happens again. He sighs overdramatically (it's okay, no one is here to hear him) and throws himself up off the sofa. But he still doesn’t answer the call. On the third ring, Oswald is less surprised but no less irritated by the relentless shrillness that begins to grate on his ears. The fourth time, he crosses his arms tightly and considers cutting the landline cords once and for all.<p>After five rings, Oswald’s patience has worn impossibly thin and his temper fumes like the teapot on the stove; by the time the telephone rings a sixth time, he thinks he feels a migraine blooming somewhere behind his eyes. He pours the hot water into his teacup, slams the pot down with a clatter, and staggers to the next room to finally cease this endless obnoxious ringing.</p><p>“Yes?” Oswald answers slowly, fingers tapping an agitated rhythm against the tabletop.</p><p>“Mr. Mayor,” croons a refined voice from the other end. One he doesn’t recognize.</p><p>“May I ask who is speaking?” he replies, briefly wishing his tone wasn’t so snippy, lest she be someone influential. But it’s hard to appreciate strange phone calls from mysterious people.</p><p>“An admirer,” she says, infuriatingly simple.</p><p>“Mm-hm… And to what do I owe this pleasure?” Oswald asks sweetly, baring his teeth and hoping she’s somehow threatened.</p><p>“I’m looking forward to meeting you at the Founder’s Dinner.” She’s on his guest list- or at least, she knows someone who is and thought she’ll hitch a ride. He <em>should</em> know who she is. She seems to read his mind. “I’m a rather private person, I can choose whether or not I want someone to see me.”</p><p>Oswald offers an unimpressed hum. These cryptic games wear on his nerves. “I see.”</p><p>“Well, farewell for now. I hope you got the flowers.”</p><p>Oswald’s heart seizes but he ventures to make a bold comment anyway. “You mean the crushed little petals you mailed to me? Yes, very thoughtful,” he snaps, voice quivering involuntarily.</p><p>There’s silence for several moments, only the buzz of the other line crackling in his ear, but he swears she’s <em>smiling.</em> </p><p>“All my best,” she finally says. The line clicks dead.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>“You’re sure?”<p>“There’s really only one way to interpret a death omen, Oswald.”</p><p>“And you think the woman on the phone is involved,” Oswald concludes thoughtfully as he carefully lowers himself onto the sofa.</p><p>“I think so,” Ed settles in beside him, so close that their knees touch and his heart beats faster than it should. “You really don’t think you know her? Never met her once?” he asks softly.</p><p>Oswald, defeated and puzzled, throws up his hands. “I- I would have remembered her- I swear, and-”</p><p>“Okay. It’s okay, Os-”</p><p>“And I never would have invited her, not if I didn’t know her-”</p><p>“<em>Os,</em>” he repeats, laying a hand on his knee. “We’ll figure it out. She probably knows someone else who is invited, and she probably <em>bribed</em> them to bring her as their plus one.”</p><p>“This is too cloak and dagger for me,” Oswald mutters, dropping his tired head into his hands, “Why can’t this just be easy, for once?”</p><p>Ed gives his knee a gentle squeeze, makes a mental note that it’s more bony and sharp than he had remembered. “She probably feels threatened by you, and thought she’d send you something to make herself seem more powerful. Just a common schoolyard bully. Nothing we can’t handle.”</p><p>The soft smile Ed earns is something wonderful, and so is the delicate touch of Oswald’s hand over his. “Thank you, Ed. I can always count on you.”</p><p>The glimmer in his pale eyes, the sincerity warming his voice, the very words which echo Ed’s own from just months before, make his heart thump heavily. And when he finds himself leaning in, gaze locked on Oswald’s widening eyes, he’s sure his chest will burst. Yet he can’t stop himself, and Oswald is so close, frozen still, scarcely breathing-</p><p>Somewhere, a door flies open with a crash, the knob rattling and footfalls following. Ed jerks away, squeezes his eyes shut. Oswald releases a tiny breath.</p><p>“Oswald, I’m sorry, they didn’t have chocolate scones so I got blueberry instead-” Richard freezes in the doorway, takes in Oswald’s frightened eyes and disheveled hair. “Oswald?”</p><p>Ed’s fingers tighten around Oswald’s knee, just slightly but still just enough to make Ed wonder <em>why.</em> The moment Oswald withdraws his hand, Ed all but flings himself up off the couch, creating miles of distance between them. <em>Figures Richard chose the perfect time to burst in with Oswald’s favorite pastries.</em> Ed curses him under his breath.</p><p>“I was only gone for half an hour,” Richard frets, placing the bag of scones on the table as he treads closer, “What on earth happened?”</p><p>“Someone sent Oswald rhododendron petals,” Ed sneers, taking careful steps forward and crowding into Richard’s space, “Means ‘death, to beware.’ You wouldn’t know anything about that, <em>would you Richard?</em>”</p><p>A phone buzzes, jarring and sudden, and Richard nearly jumps out of his skin. </p><p>Oswald’s brows furrow. “Dear, is everything alright?”</p><p>He doesn’t answer. His shaking hand flies to his pocket, he glances at the number, he thrusts the phone back into his jacket.</p><p>How interesting.</p><p>“People with a guilty conscience are more often startled by loud or sudden noises. Isn’t that neat?” Ed chirps, that poisonous smile spreading oh so slow across his lips as the blood drains from Richard’s face. <em>He’s got him now…</em></p><p>“Ed? What are you doing?” Oswald asks as he rises from the sofa, a mildly horrified lilt in his voice.</p><p>“I think the question is,” he jabs a finger at Richard, “what is <em>he</em> doing.”</p><p>And that goddamn phone buzzes again.</p><p>“Do you need to get that?” Ed casts him a Cheshire grin.</p><p>Oswald stamps his foot. The phone continues to buzz, ominous and unending, so terribly <em>loud.</em> “Ed, what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Stop this at once!”</p><p>He prowls closer, eyes narrowed. “Who are you, really?”</p><p>Richard’s eyes flicker between Ed and Oswald, as if he really thinks Oswald will choose <em>him.</em></p><p>But he does. He steps right between them, tips his chin up and glares defiantly up at Ed like <em>he’s</em> the enemy. “Ed, I am warning you. Back off.”</p><p>The buzzing stops, and it’s dead silent.</p><p>“Now,” Oswald exhales heavily, casts a glance behind him at Richard, who appears… <em>sadder</em> every passing moment. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I am <em>sure</em> there is a reasonable explanation.”</p><p>Ed throws up a hand towards Richard. “Yes, great, give us an explanation,” he snaps.</p><p>“Are you in danger?” Oswald cuts in, smoothing his hands down his arms.</p><p>Richard presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, like he’s holding off a migraine. “No, it’s fine,” he chokes out, “It’s nothing.”</p><p>Ed grits his teeth and his jaw aches under the tension. “Sure doesn’t seem like nothing.”</p><p>“A mysterious woman called me earlier,” Oswald begins slowly, “Do you know her?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I don’t- I don’t think so.”</p><p>That’s enough. That is goddamn <em>enough.</em> Ed snatches up fistfuls of whatever piece of clothing he can catch and shakes Richard, no longer trying to contain the violent rage bursting red behind his eyes. “What the <em>hell</em> are you playing at?!”</p><p>“ED!”</p><p>“You’re trying to kill him, aren’t you? Just gotta have a little fun first? Sending him death omens and having strange people call him? <em>Pouring arsenic into that damn vanilla tea whenever he’s not looking?</em>”</p><p>“I would never- <em>I love him! More than anything!</em>”</p><p>“Edward Nygma, how dare you,” Oswald spits, and <em>oh god,</em> Ed finally tears his gaze away from Richard and looks at him, sees how he shakes and how tears slip down his boiling red cheeks. It’s enough to deflate him.</p><p>“How dare <em>me,</em>” Ed repeats quietly, his throat burning, an incredulous laugh bubbling up in his chest.</p><p>The phone is buzzing again. Ed laughs again, tasting bitterness.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispers as he retreats, but he is <em>not</em> defeated, even as he meets Oswald’s fierce, glossy eyes. “Fine. You want me to stay out of it…” There’s no need to finish his sentence. He’s not staying out of this. “But Richard,” Ed pauses in the doorway, yet doesn’t turn to face that man who’s destroyed everything, “if you really love him, you’ll stop whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”</p><p>And he steps away, out of the room, away from the terrible crushing pressure of that tense silence. The sound of Oswald’s sobs shake through the halls after him, all the way to the door. He needs that phone more than anything, he needs to know who’s calling Richard. Oswald’s life depends on it.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Two days left now. Oswald is not speaking to Ed, and should this continue till the Founder’s Dinner, it will not bode well for their public appearance. That’s why Ed needs to get Richard’s phone, and in extension the proof, before then. And besides, he hates when he and Oswald are frozen on ice, not because he fears Oswald’s wrath, but because he just <em>misses</em> what they used to be.<p>Ed mulls over a few ideas, some unsavory, some more practical. He could hack Richard’s flip phone, although an outdated device such as his will likely be difficult; he’d need to cajole Lucius Fox into helping him, and even asking could send up a red flag to anyone concerned. He could drug Richard until he falls asleep and swipe the phone from his pocket. But, he runs the risk of Oswald stumbling across his unconscious boyfriend and subsequently losing his mind. So Ed sets the only plan he has left into motion: a little sleight of hand that requires him to get closer to Richard than he’s comfortable. He hates it—no, <em>loathes</em> it—but it’s his only chance at pure, uncomplicated success.</p><p>It’s not hard to find Richard. Although he and Oswald have been giving Ed the cold shoulder for the past day and a half, the two <em>lovebirds</em> linger about the mansion’s halls for most of the day.</p><p>“Mr. Nygma,” Richard responds curtly, moving to brush past him.</p><p>Ed’s fingers twitch, stretch, but it’s too risky. Not yet. “Richard,” Ed sighs, “wait, there’s something-”</p><p>“What?” he snaps, “Have something else to accuse me of?”</p><p>Ed digs his fingernails into his palms to keep from hitting him square across that stupid, perfect jaw. “No,” he forces his sharp grin to soften into something more genuine, “I want to apologize.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I know you love Oswald. I see that now. I was just- I worry about him. A lot. I’m sure you understand.”</p><p>“So you accused me of trying to <em>kill</em> the love of my life,” Richard begins slowly (and Ed tries not to focus on <em>love of my life</em> too much), “because you’re… worried about him?”</p><p>“No, uh- that was uncalled for.” Ed makes a point to stare down at his shoes as if he’s ashamed. The heat in his cheeks is unexpected but nevertheless sells his story.</p><p>“You love him too,” Richard says simply, looking Ed up and down.</p><p>Ed nearly chokes on his sudden intake of breath. He could deny it, of course, but perhaps it would work more in his favor to play along. “Ah, yes. I do… love… Oswald. But please don’t say anything! I’m still with Isabella, and it would just-” he puffs his cheeks and exhales heavily, “it would kill her.”</p><p>Richard remains silent, although the sharp glint in his eyes has softened.</p><p>“Well. That’s all I suppose. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you of trying to kill your own boyfriend,” Ed chuckles uneasily, hoping to diminish the tension, but winces inwardly as soon as the sound slips from his lips. </p><p>Richard seems less than impressed with this so Ed, hopeless at the end of his rope and ignoring the angry prickling under his skin, steps forward and cautiously winds his arms around the other man. Richard stiffens instantly, and Ed gives him a reassuring pat on the back. The scent of Oswald’s favorite wine, of his pomegranate lotion and his hairspray, linger at Richard’s collar. Grimacing, Ed slowly slides his hands down as Richard finally raises his own arms in an awkward attempt to return Ed’s mutually unwanted affection. Ed’s fingers touch plastic. Got it.</p><p>He breaks away the moment he’s slipped the phone up his own sleeve. “Right. So… water under the bridge?”</p><p>“Um… I suppose,” Richard mutters, his mouth set in a firm line. “I hope you’ll apologize to Oswald, too.”</p><p>“Of course.” His fingers close around his prize and squeeze, and he waits as Richard nods once and continues past him. “Moron,” Ed growls under his breath the instant the man has rounded the corner.</p><p>But he’s <em>got it,</em> he’s got the most important thing in the world right now and that’s all that matters. He’ll finally have proof and Oswald will know and he’ll be <em>safe.</em></p><p>Anticipation buzzes in Ed’s veins.</p><p>He hits redial and waits as the dull ring crackles, his heart pounding, threatening to burst from his chest. It’s the longest ten seconds of his life. And then there’s a click. His breath stills.</p><p><em>“Gibson. For god’s sake, I’ve been trying to reach you nonstop.”</em> A gruff voice. Unmistakably recognizable.</p><p>The phone slips from Ed’s hand. Faintly, through the rushing of blood in his ears, he can hear it clatter on the tiles. It takes a moment—several moments—for his brain to catch up. <em>Oh god, it’s him. It’s really him.</em> Ed is vaguely aware of the squeezing in his arms, the tightness in his chest. He scrambles to the floor, snatches the phone up, shakily brings it to his ear.</p><p>
  <em>“Gibson? You there?”</em>
</p><p>Should he try to impersonate Richard? He’ll likely fail.</p><p>
  <em>“Goddammit, Gibson, answer me!”</em>
</p><p>He presses the button before he can stop himself. But he’s got what he needs: he knows who owns Richard.</p><p>Fingers trembling, Ed fishes through his wallet until he finds the crumpled little note, the very same that was left for Richard at 404 Gunnar Street. <em>G is not happy. You’re too close. Submit report #B113OC at once or we will terminate your services.</em></p><p>It’s him: <em>G.</em> Gordon. James Gordon. Richard is working for the GCPD.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oswald's world falls down.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is a beautiful suit draped over the armchair in Oswald’s bedroom. Deep purple and pinstripe, crafted from the finest silk, cut to fit Oswald just right. Richard tells him he’ll look spectacularly lovely at the Founder’s Dinner.</p><p>Oswald frowns and sets aside those emerald cufflinks he’d been favoring for the past several weeks. Perhaps he’ll wear a diamond pair instead.</p><p>“I don’t want him there,” he says, breaking the silence.</p><p>Richard settles beside him on the edge of the bed and wraps an arm around him, but he doesn’t say a word.</p><p>“I <em>can’t</em> have him there.”</p><p>“He apologized, you know. Just now, actually,” Richard murmurs, stroking a thumb across Oswald’s hand.</p><p>He nearly cries again, right there and then. “It’s not enough.”</p><p>There’s a long pause. The bed creaks ever so slightly. Oswald wants to curl up under the covers.</p><p>“He cares about you. More than you know,” Richard eventually offers.</p><p>Oswald’s eyes catch on the glinting green cufflinks beside him. He suppresses the instinctual urge to scoff.</p><p>“It’s true. He told me as much.”</p><p>“If he really cared about me, he wouldn’t-”</p><p>“Deep breaths, my love.”</p><p>“H- he wouldn’t-” Oswald sucks in a shaky inhale, exhales a sob that heaves his shoulders. “He’d <em>be there</em> for me,” he squeaks, his lips twisting and chin wobbling. Hot tears slip down his burning cheeks.</p><p>Richard gives his hand a squeeze. “No matter what happens, I’ll be here for you.”</p><p>The sun seems to shine brighter outside and makes the rain drops on the window panes sparkle. With Richard’s arms around him, Oswald takes a deep, steadying breath and watches the rays stretch and dance across the room.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Aside from the pounding in his ears, Ed can hardly hear a thing. His chest shudders with a breath. Paper crinkles in one fist, Richard’s phone buzzes in the other.<p>Before he knows it, his legs are moving, stiff and unsteady.</p><p>Gordon. <em>Of course</em> it’s Gordon. Who else would attach to Oswald like a leech, following his every movement as though they’re just waiting for him to stumble? He should have seen this coming. Why <em>didn’t</em> he see this coming?</p><p>Oswald needs to know about this. Oswald will hate him- he’s always had a tendency to shoot the messenger. But <em>Ed</em> needs him to know, no matter how much it will hurt. Despite everything—the fights, the cold distance kept between them—Ed’s been here for him the whole time, not Richard.</p><p>He collects the Gunnar Street files from where they’d been tucked away under his mattress- if he’s going to end this once and for all, there can’t be a single shred of doubt left in Oswald’s mind.</p><p>A strip of warm lamplight glows under Oswald’s bedroom door. Ed’s hand flies to the knob. Bed springs creak and he freezes, blood rushing so loud in his ears he has to strain to listen. <em>Oh god, he’s not too late, is he?</em> Slamming his shoulder against the door, he bursts into the room and is met with a sight that drives a deep ache straight through to his heart, a feeling so sharp and startling he has to press a hand to his chest and suck in a breath.</p><p>Oswald and Richard are pressed together, practically <em>attached</em> to each other. Oswald’s previously perfect hair is now tousled, loose strands curling against his forehead. They part, and his lips are pink. Too pink. Richard’s hands slip from around his waist.</p><p>“Edward?” Oswald asks quietly, brushing a tear from his rosy cheek.</p><p>There’s a moment where Ed, motionless and sputtering, envisions himself striding over and sweeping Oswald up to his feet and away from Richard, squeezing him to his chest and gasping pleading words into his hair. He can almost feel the gentleness of Oswald’s hands skimming across his back, and the dampness of Oswald’s tears soaking through his shirt…</p><p>He snaps back to it with a scalding blush. No. This is about <em>him.</em> “Richard,” Ed sing-songs, throwing on a cheery smile even as pain sears through his chest, “Jim Gordon was just asking for you!”</p><p>When he waves Richard’s phone in the air, the man’s look of confusion dissolves and he pales like a ghost. <em>God,</em> is that satisfying.</p><p>“Ed, what are you talking about?” Oswald asks frantically. He looks to Richard. “What is he talking about?”</p><p>“Tell him!” Ed snaps when Richard’s eyes flicker to the floor. “Go ahead!”</p><p>“<em>Tell me what?!</em>”</p><p>“Oswald, he’s <em>lying</em> to you!” </p><p>And he slaps all of the files he found at 404 Gunnar Street, the note from Gordon’s go-between and all of that liar’s documents, down into Richard’s lap. The faded photograph of Oswald in his Arkham stripes glares up at him from the top of the stack.</p><p>Ed has never experienced a more profound silence.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald’s first instinct is to chuckle nervously, to brush it off like it’s an appalling, insensitive joke. <em>The worst joke he’s ever heard.</em> The laugh bubbles from his lips but Ed’s eyes are still wide and serious and Richard is corpse-white.<p>“This is ridiculous!” he squawks, throwing himself off the bed. No one else moves, or makes a sound, or breathes.</p><p>“Oh, god,” Richard chokes suddenly, and he buries his face in his hands as he’s overcome with heavy sobs. “<em>I never wanted any of this!</em>”</p><p>“Never wanted wha-” Oswald freezes, ice cold, “Don’t tell me this is true.”</p><p>But Richard is shaking his head, and Oswald’s mind is spinning and his world is unraveling. “I can’t keep doing this,” says Richard, the man who is supposed to be there for him when he has no one else, the man who is supposed to love him.</p><p>Oswald can’t breathe, can’t stop shaking. <em>This isn’t real, it can’t be. He’ll wake up soon, surely. He’ll wake up-</em></p><p>“I’m so sorry, Oswald, I’m so sorry,” Richard is saying, but he sounds so very distant. </p><p>As Oswald stumbles away, legs threatening to buckle as he sways, he just barely registers Ed’s voice drifting to him, telling him to breathe, to <em>just keep breathing.</em></p><p>“I… I can’t… I can’t breathe,” he answers dazedly. He throws out his hands and braces himself against… something—the dresser, maybe. His head is too fuzzy. Ed is reaching for him now. “N- no, <em>no,</em> do not- Do <em>not</em> touch me!” he hisses, jerking himself away from his grasp.</p><p>Richard just keeps repeating <em>I’m sorry, I’m sorry</em> over and over until it means absolutely nothing.</p><p>Oswald doesn’t want to know. He could bury his head in the sand right now, go on living with Richard by his side as though nothing was ever wrong, get married… but he just <em>can’t.</em> He <em>needs</em> to know.</p><p>“You- you have a photo of me. Why do you have a photo of me?”</p><p>Richard doesn’t look up, just strokes his thumbs across the picture. “Because you were my objective,” he whispers. A tear drops.</p><p>And Oswald’s world comes tumbling down. It’s as simple as that.</p><p>Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, Oswald squeezes his eyes shut, his lashes brushing wetness across his cheeks. “You’re-”</p><p>“A private detective, hired out of Metropolis.”</p><p>Oswald bites into his cheek and nods.</p><p>“James Gordon heard through the grapevine that you were planning an important celebration for Gotham’s finest- something exclusive, secretive. He wanted me to… keep tabs on you,” he mutters shamefully, his eyes cast away from Oswald’s.</p><p>Oswald scoffs. Jim has never trusted him and has proven time and time again that he’ll go out of his way to dig up dirt on him. “What could <em>possibly</em> be so interesting about the Founder’s Dinner- which, mind you, has been held for decades?!”</p><p>“The GCPD has caught onto a threat. Something called the Court of Owls,” Richard furrows his brow at the mysterious name, “He thinks you might have a connection.”</p><p>“Mm-hm. So let me get this straight,” Oswald sneers, tapping his chin, “<em>Jim Gordon</em> paid you to <em>spy</em> on me!”</p><p>“Y- yes, I suppose, to put it bluntly, but I- I fell in love with you, Oswald! The very first moment that I saw you,” Richard cries, and Oswald <em>wants</em> to believe him, to let himself have this thing despite all of its broken edges. But a thought strikes him.</p><p>“And was falling in love with me part of Jim’s plan for you?! Or was that just an accident?”</p><p>“I never would have manipulated you like that-”</p><p>“So it <em>was</em> an accident!”</p><p>“No! I- I mean- I didn’t plan for it, but- Oswald, meeting you was the best thing that’s ever happened to me!”</p><p>Ignoring the sting of those words, Oswald snorts in feigned amusement.</p><p>“I still had my duties, but I was so in love with you that I couldn’t carry out a single order. And I- I thought that I could escape it, that somehow I could-”</p><p>Oswald stamps his foot, and Richard startles and falls silent. Even Ed shifts in the edges of his vision. “Just how much information have you given to Jim?” he demands, although the dread creeping under his skin makes him almost wish he hadn’t asked. <em>What a fool Oswald is, faced with betrayal yet still holding onto the hope that this isn’t as bad as it seems.</em> Shame and grief and bitter <em>rage</em> boil like poison on his insides.</p><p>“I haven’t given him anything.”</p><p>How can Oswald believe a word he says? How can Oswald look into those glimmering brown eyes, the very same that once comforted him, and see anything but treachery? “Do <em>not</em> lie to me, not again!” he cries shakily.</p><p>“I’m not!” Richard says between gasping breaths, and his hands are reaching for Oswald, and Oswald can’t do this. He can’t let himself be wrapped up in warm arms anymore, or cry on this man’s shoulder, or kiss him, or tell him he loves him… </p><p>He stumbles backward, away from those soft, outstretched hands, and the look of absolute <em>devastation</em> on Richard’s face is enough to drive a stake right to Oswald’s heart. Teeth gritted, he lets out an involuntary sob.</p><p>“Oswald, I promise, I never sent him anything, I-”</p><p>“It’s true,” Ed comments quietly. <em>Finally he’s got something to say.</em> Richard gapes at him, clearly shocked that Ed is helping his case.</p><p>“Oh, so now you’re on <em>his</em> side?!” Oswald shrieks. He’s past his boiling point and now he’s just churning with emotions he’s not sure he even has names for.</p><p>“The note,” Ed says, looking entirely like a kicked dog with its tail tucked between its legs, “Gordon was upset with you. With your services- or rather, <em>lack</em> of services.”</p><p>“Yes,” Richard breathes, somewhat relieved, “He threatened to fire me, but I- I never submitted any reports. Not a single one.”</p><p>“And I’m supposed to, what,” Oswald blurts out a hysterical laugh, “just <em>believe</em> you?! After all the lies you’ve told me?!”</p><p>Now that, Richard doesn’t have an answer for.</p><p>“Is your name even Richard Gibson?”</p><p>He remains silent, and it would be so easy for Oswald to just give up here and now, to crumple to the floor and just <em>feel</em> everything he’s shoved deep down inside himself. A sob forces its way out of him again and he bites down hard on his knuckles.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Oswald, my love-”</p><p>A wave of Oswald’s hand stops him. “If I see you again,” Oswald breathes, tone dangerously low, “I will k-” He chokes on the word, swallows it down. A step too far, a step he’s not willing to take, even after everything. “Don’t come back,” he finally says, his voice an iceberg breaking down the middle.</p><p>The look in Richard’s eyes is one of complete devastation and Oswald can’t bring himself to watch him crumble. He fixes a hard gaze on the ground and waits as Richard’s shadow shifts and the floorboards creak with each painful, receding step.</p><p>And then he’s gone.</p><p>And Oswald takes all of that roiling emotion, all of that shame and pain and rage tearing him up inside and he screams and screams and <em>screams</em> until his throat is raw and he can’t make another sound.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed’s satisfaction is a puddle under his shoes. How could he ever expect anything else to come from this other than Oswald’s tortuous heartbreak?<p>No, no. He needs to remind himself that he did this <em>for</em> Oswald, to protect him, to save him from his downfall at the hands of Richard Gibson and the GCPD. But no matter how hard he tries to drill the idea into his brain, he can’t ignore the <em>now:</em> how the deafening quiet lays heavy in his ears like cotton, how the coldness creeps into his bones, how violently Oswald is shaking.</p><p>Perhaps if he just explains himself, Oswald will understand. Oswald will be grateful.</p><p>It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “Oswald,” he whispers, “I’m so-”</p><p>“<em>Shut up, Ed!</em>” Oswald shrieks, startling him, raw agony breaking his voice as he surges upward into his space. He’s so close, Ed can see the tears trembling on his lower lashes, the streaks of mascara painting his cheeks, the ice in his eyes. “Haven’t you ruined enough for a day?!”</p><p>And Oswald shoves past him, breathing raggedly and leaning heavily on his cane, the only thing keeping him from collapsing as harsh sobs shake through him.</p><p>Oh dear. Oh <em>god,</em> Ed’s broken him. Utterly and completely. His heart lies in shattered ruins and crunches underfoot like glass.</p><p>So Ed goes home to Isabella and falls onto the couch without a word.</p><p>“Edward?” Comes a sweet voice from the doorway.</p><p>“I screwed up, Isabella, I-” Ed chokes out, already feeling that far too familiar ache in his chest, the seizing of his lungs as though he’s submerged in ice water. “I really screwed up-”</p><p>“<em>What</em> happened, Eddie?”</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald's suit seems to collect dust where it’s laid out across the chair, all ready for the Founder’s Dinner. A folded slip of paper is tucked into the breast pocket, holding the speech he’s not sure he’ll even have the strength to give. Would it be unprofessional to cancel the whole event on account of his broken heart?<p>Richard has been gone for a little over a day. Ed is god knows where. The manor falls into delicate silence and Oswald is sure he’s never felt so alone.</p><p>It goes without saying that Ed is not welcome tonight. The Mayor without his Chief of Staff at such an important event might capture some unwanted attention but it’s a risk Oswald is willing to take. He just needs one night where he doesn’t have to think about glasses or brown eyes or the color green.</p><p>The day passes in a blur, painstakingly slow but sure, and Oswald hasn’t done a damn thing but stare at his glass of wine. By the start of the evening, his lips are stained red and he hardly feels better.</p><p>Time to get ready.</p><p>It’s a warm spring evening but there’s such a deep emptiness in Oswald’s chest, an icy cavern he’s not sure will thaw. He buttons his silk waistcoat methodically, his careful gaze held straight ahead at the mirror- although he finds he can’t meet his own eyes. As though a force of habit, his hand hovers over the glittering pair of emerald cufflinks- the ones that compliment his suit particularly well. Purple and green go so well together, after all. With a grimace, he snatches up the diamond ones instead.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The taste of ginger and honey tea on his tongue awakens something in Ed, making him long for past days. He drains his cup, his hands warmed but his heart still bitterly cold. Isabella strokes a hand across his shoulders and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend that he’s back home at the manor with the fireplace lit, that this is his dear best friend Oswald beside him.<p>He can pretend everything is alright again.</p><p>It’s getting late, the sunlight fading fast. Isabella switches on a lamp and fills the little apartment with a warm orange glow. The celebration is starting soon, and Ed can barely move a muscle.</p><p>“You should go, Eddie,” Isabella says, soft as Kristen would, but the way she brushes his cheek with her knuckles nearly makes Ed flinch. She withdraws her hand.</p><p>“Oswald doesn’t want me there. I’m sure of it.”</p><p>“You’re his best friend!”</p><p>Ed sets the teacup on the coffee table before he ends up dropping it. “I don’t think so. Not anymore,” he croaks.</p><p>“He’s had time to cool off.”</p><p>Ed shakes his head.</p><p>“Oh, Eddie,” Isabella coos, “you have to try.”</p><p>Even Isabella, who worries that Oswald has replaced her in Ed’s heart and who tries so desperately to be his first love Kristen, can’t bear to watch the waters freeze. Even she sees that Oswald is not one Ed can afford to lose.</p><p>He tries to picture it: a life without him. Waking up to a silent apartment, his only company the blinking green lights flashing outside the grimy windows. Brewing tea for one, sitting down for breakfast and reading the paper to himself. Stepping out of the shower and remembering he’s alone, that there’s no one sleeping soundly in the next room or raiding the fridge or throwing things during one of his many tantrums.</p><p>Ed frowns. No, he’s forgotten something: he’ll still have Isabella. He wouldn’t have to be alone, he could stay at her cozy city apartment, wake up beside her, drink the tea she serves… </p><p>And Oswald would remain at the manor, the doors sealed shut behind him. Ed would know he’s out there, and Ed would remember that he can never see him again.</p><p>Now that is something worse than a nightmare.</p><p>“Are you sure?” Ed whispers.</p><p>“Go after him.”</p><p>Before he knows it, Ed’s throwing on his finest pressed black suit and Isabella’s pushing him out the door. He hasn’t the slightest idea of what he’ll say to Oswald when he reaches City Hall, or if Oswald will even listen to his pleas, but Isabella is right. He won’t lose his best friend without a fight.</p><p>The venue is gorgeous, of course, the little touches of Oswald here and there subtle yet definitely recognizable to Ed; Oswald always had impeccable taste, afterall. Lush bouquets of lilies line the winding cobblestone path that curves towards the main patio. An ice sculpture resembling a penguin stands proudly beside long tables of hors d'oeuvres. Lamps circle the rose gardens and cast a warm glow on the walkways. A sizeable crowd has gathered on the patio, and even more glitter- and fur-clad guests wander down the white marble steps of City Hall to mingle.</p><p>Ed takes a deep, steadying breath in. The subtle, misty scent of rain hangs in the air and the first stars of the evening sparkle faintly in the hazy indigo sky. This is sure to be a grand event.</p><p>He smooths out his suit and paces forward, his courage crumbling underneath his sauve facade. He immerses himself in the crowd, keeping an eye out for Oswald while reaching for a flute of champagne.</p><p>And then he spots him, staggering along the pathway. <em>Beautiful</em> is the first word to jump to Ed’s mind.</p><p>But Oswald notices him too, and he freezes, his expression twisting into a grimace before he averts his eyes and quickens his pace to the patio.</p><p>Ed abandons any thoughts of champagne and dashes to meet him. “Oswald, just <em>talk</em> to me,” he pleads.</p><p>“<em>I have nothing to say to you,</em>” Oswald hisses, shoving past him.</p><p>“We can’t leave things like this,” Ed presses, spinning and following close at Oswald’s heels.</p><p>“I have lost my best friend and the only man who’s ever loved me all in one day,” he retorts fiercely, “I am <em>not</em> in a talking mood.”</p><p>Ed rolls his eyes. “If you hadn’t been so- so <em>ridiculous</em> about that man, maybe you would have noticed!”</p><p>Oswald whips around. “Why were you <em>so</em> keen to destroy my one chance at happiness? At <em>love?</em> I’ve spent my whole life thinking I would never find anyone to love me, but now that I had, you made it your personal mission to sabotage <em>everything!</em>” Oswald shrinks back on his heels and quickly glances around him, making sure no one’s noticed their little spat.</p><p>“So, what, you’re just <em>okay</em> with your whole relationship being based on a lie?!” Ed seethes through gritted teeth, staying wary of how much attention they’re gathering.</p><p>“I have never met a man who made me feel so <em>wanted.</em>”</p><p>“And what about me, huh?” Ed bites back.</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>An ache spreads through his heart. “I’ve always wanted you, Oswald,” he offers, softer this time.</p><p>“Not in the way that I need.”</p><p>Bitterness boils. “So, what,” Ed huffs a mirthless, cruel laugh, “I was just never enough for you? Is that it?”</p><p>“And there it is,” Oswald says quietly, lips thinning.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Now you know how <em>I</em> felt when you brought Isabelle home.”</p><p><em>What the hell does that mean?</em> “Wh- what does Isabella have to do with this? Oswald?”</p><p>“I can’t do this right now,” Oswald whispers, his shoulders slumping, tears dropping from his lashes and onto the cobblestones, “I can’t.”</p><p>No, no, no, they’re supposed to resolve this. They can’t part like this again.<em>Ed</em> can’t. “Oswald, <em>please,</em>” he gasps desperately.</p><p>But he only shakes his head numbly, not even looking at Ed as he turns away, and Ed is statue-still, stone-cold, utterly alone. He most definitely deserves it.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The only thing Oswald wants to think about is what kind of alcohol he’ll be drowning himself in tonight. A sumptuous display of red wines and sparkling champagne is spread out on a table across the patio, beckoning him.<p>But there’s Barbara coming into his line of sight, dressed in a shimmering gold gown, excusing herself from Tabitha’s arms and striding purposefully towards him. “Ozzie,” she says, furrowing her brow and wiping a smudge of makeup from his cheek with her thumb, “what the hell happened to you?”</p><p>He opens his mouth to explain but only takes a shuddering, hitching breath. He shakes his head.</p><p>“<em>Oh,</em>” she breathes in realization, “Ozzie, honey… I’m sorry.”</p><p>“He’s been lying to me this whole time,” he laughs bitterly, “Working for Jim, in fact.”</p><p>Barbara scowls. “Scumbag,” she hisses, pausing before adding: “Do you want me to…” she flicks a finger across her throat and feigns a gagging noise.</p><p>“Oh- Oh, no,” Oswald answers quickly, waving his hands, “that won’t be necessary.”</p><p>Barbara offers a noncommittal hum, one Oswald hopes doesn’t mean she’ll go after his boyfr- <em>ex-boyfriend.</em> “I gotta hand it to him,” she eventually says, “he does a hell of a job playing the fool in love. I’m surprised Jimbo finally snagged someone competent.”</p><p>“But he does love me. It’s just…” he inhales sharply, “he and Ed have both broken my heart.”</p><p>She snorts. “Ed broke your heart too? Go figure.”</p><p>Suddenly it’s like he’s stepping into that lavish clocktower apartment once more, shaking hands with a friendly blonde woman as Jim Gordon grits his teeth beside them.</p><p><em>Men,</em> Oswald had said emphatically, and Barbara smiled knowingly back.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t I know.</em>
</p><p>Oswald certainly knows now.</p><p>Barbara snaps her fingers. “You need a drink.”</p><p>“I… need a drink,” Oswald affirms with a tired nod.</p><p>Barbara pats his shoulder as she sets a path for the open bar. “It’s a good thing you have me, sweetie.” As snippy as she can be, she’s right; it’s actually been a tremendous comfort to have Barbara to vent to.</p><p>Oswald heaves a deep breath and tries to let the tension unfurl and roll off his shoulders. If he’s going to solidify himself as Gotham’s strong leader, smudged makeup and tear-stained cheeks certainly won’t paint him as such. He tugs at his sleeves and twists his diamond cufflinks. Playing the role the city needs isn’t so easy when he can feel the broken shards of his heart poking through his ribs. He really needs that drink Barbara promised.</p><p>“You seem a little out of sorts,” a voice behind him says. He whirls around and is met face-to-face with an older blonde woman swirling a glass of champagne. She’s rather severe looking, and when she speaks she has an air of superiority and regality that makes Oswald bristle. The corpse of a fox hangs limply around her neck, and she strokes its luxurious fur as though it’s her pet.</p><p>Something about her makes Oswald’s mind ache with deja vu.</p><p>“Y- yes, I must admit I- I’m not quite myself right now,” he splutters, offering a quick, uneasy grin at the tall woman.</p><p>“Oh?” Oddly, she doesn’t sound the least bit surprised.</p><p>“Ah- um, relationship troubles, I suppose,” he says, nearly cringing at his own nervous giggle.</p><p>Her lips thin into what is likely supposed to be a knowing smile. “Take it from someone who’s been divorced three times and who recently put her last husband in prison: they always let you down, one way or another.”</p><p>Oswald shoots her an indulgent smile. “Perhaps. But I didn’t think he would. I really didn’t.”</p><p>“I’m all ears,” she responds, something scratchy lying just beneath her pleasant facade.</p><p>He only offers watered-down details, but he shares just enough so that she has a vague idea of the situation: Ed met Isabelle and broke Oswald’s heart. Oswald met Richard and quickly struck up a fairytale romance. Ed fought tooth and nail to sabotage Oswald’s newfound love life. Oswald is once again alone and broken-hearted.</p><p>He hardly realizes he’s been spilling his guts to this woman for about ten whole minutes until it’s far too late. “I apologize, I’ve been talking so much,” he sighs, a bit put-on, although his cheeks warm with embarrassment. “And perhaps I’ve given you the wrong impression of Ed. He wasn’t always… like this.”</p><p>The woman releases an impassive chuckle. “Beware the green-eyed monster,” she says, staring down her nose at Oswald as she lifts her champagne flute to her mouth.</p><p>Oswald furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“Sounds like your friend is a little jealous.”</p><p>“Y- you think Ed wanted Richard?” Oswald’s heart stutters in his chest.</p><p>“I think,” she begins slowly, examining her glass critically as champagne bubbles pop and fizzle to the surface, “he wanted <em>you.</em>”</p><p>No. Oswald <em>cannot</em> afford to entertain that thought. He snorts but her expression is set in stone. “You don’t <em>really</em> think that-” he says, his skeptical smirk fading.</p><p>She arches a thin eyebrow.</p><p>God, he’s blushing again. “Oh.”</p><p>The woman straightens her spine and tips her head up, her body language silently ending that conversation. Oswald would like to know exactly <em>how</em> she could be so sure that Ed is in love with him (now there’s a thought that steals his breath away), but perhaps he’s embarrassed himself enough already. “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Mayor. I wish you all my best in dealing with your dilemma.”</p><p>There’s that pang of deja vu again, stronger and sharper this time. “I feel like I know you,” Oswald murmurs, squinting as he studies her austere face.</p><p>“You don’t, really,” she answers slowly, “but you will.” Her shriveled lips curl into an odd little smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Mayor,” she says, and then she’s gone, her sternly coiffed hair disappearing amidst the crowd.</p><p>Thunder rumbles low in the inky skies above.</p><p>That itching feeling that’s been crawling under Oswald’s skin now <em>burns</em> and turns the blood rushing through his veins to fire. This isn’t just deja vu. <em>It’s her.</em> The woman he’d spoken to on the phone not three days earlier, the one who sent him (either personally or via messenger) flower petals warning him of death and despair. Could she have something to do with this elusive Court of Owls that has the GCPD so worried? “W- wait!” Oswald cries suddenly, his heart pattering frantically as he rushes after her. A hand snatches his sleeve and he whirls around to see a concerned and confused Barbara.</p><p>“You okay, Ozzie?” she asks, wrinkling her nose as she gives him a quick once-over. “I saw you chatting with that old dinosaur.”</p><p>“Uh- yes. I’m alright.”</p><p>“I sure hope so,” she presses a cold glass of champagne into his hand, “because you’re up.”</p><p>Oswald takes a long swig of his drink, not having it in him to wait until the toast. Speech time. Barbara leads him to the lectern at the center of the patio like he’s some grand spectacle, kisses his cheek for luck, and struts to Tabitha’s side.</p><p>Oswald fishes through his breast pocket with trembling fingers, produces the little folded-up paper containing his speech, and lays it out flat before him. Briefly wishing he’d practiced a bit more, he sucks in a shaky breath, squares his shoulders, and plasters on a wide, sparkling smile. “Good evening ladies, gentlemen, and others,” he begins, tapping his champagne flute with a spoon, “It is my great pleasure to welcome you to our splendid annual Founder’s Dinner!”</p><p>He’s met with a tame symphony of golf clapping, evening dresses glittering and fur collars gleaming as every single elite figure gives him their painfully polite applause. Amidst the crowd, Barbara raises her glass to him in a little toast. He strains his eyes but he can’t find that mysterious woman anywhere.</p><p>“As Mayor of this wonderful city, it has been nothing but an honor to throw such a grand celebration for Gotham’s finest citizens. Your support not only means the world to me, but it encourages me and helps me to better serve the people,” he professes, pressing a hand to his heart as though the sentiment is one that strikes him deeply. He tries not to cringe at the absolute ridiculousness of it all.</p><p>“I only hope that I can follow in the footsteps of our previous great leaders,” he adds through gritted teeth (when writing this speech, Ed had pushed Oswald to mention past mayors, although Oswald had flat-out refused to acknowledge such a moron as Aubrey James), “and prove myself more than capable and worthy of leading the people of Gotham!”</p><p>The crowd offers a more robust applause, one more to Oswald’s liking, yet he’s still eager to wrap this up quickly. A hot bubble bath and a full bottle of wine sound particularly delightful right about now.</p><p>“While it’s not my intention to talk your ears off,” he says with a nervous laugh, praying for his weak little joke to land (he earns some light-hearted chuckling), “there are a few people I would like to thank. First of all, I owe everything to my dear friend Barbara Kean and her business partner Tabitha Galavan. Without the help of the Siren’s Club, we would be deprived of such extraordinary catering!”</p><p>Barbara flaps her hand as though she’s flattered and leans her head on Tabitha’s shoulder.</p><p>“I must also express my sincere gratitude to my loyal team of employees who planned and organized this event- particularly, my maid and dear friend, Olga,” he indicates her in her sparkling plum gown, and she casts him a syrupy-sweet smile as she lays a hand over her heart. “This celebration surely would have been a disaster without her!” A few polite laughs arise.</p><p>Oswald scans the crowd, ensuring that he makes eye contact with just the right people. “Finally, I, of course, have to thank my lovely-” His gaze freezes and the words thicken on his tongue.</p><p>Even at such a distance, Oswald can still distinguish the flash of light across his glasses, the sad sloping of his pinched eyebrows, the stern line of his mouth. Of course Ed stayed. Oswald’s eyes fall to his paper and he frowns. <em>My lovely Chief of Staff Edward Nygma and my incredibly supportive boyfriend Richard.</em></p><p>He coughs, tips his chin up, and levels his eyes with Ed’s. “My lovely mother,” he finishes with a resolute nod. “She had always been my most faithful supporter, the one person I could always rely on. I hope if she could see me now, she would be proud of the man I’ve become.”</p><p>Ed’s head dips in shame. Oswald doesn’t have it in him to smile but he forces himself to anyway.</p><p>“Now. Eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves. This night is for us-”</p><p>Oswald stutters and stops, heart seizing. A hushed mutter carries between the people. His eyes trail down to a handwritten note that <em>definitely</em> was not there before, that’s penned in a swirling, cursive script he doesn’t recognize.</p><p>
  <em>Bye-bye, little bird.</em>
</p><p>Beside it is an elegant stamped seal of a crimson owl.</p><p>Thunder growls again, heavy and intense. The first of the rain begins to trickle.</p><p>And then it all happens at once.</p><p>The crack of the sudden gunshot splitting the air. The frantic gasping and screaming of the crowd as they scatter. And there’s the sound of shattering glass, and Oswald notices his champagne flute has burst, the bubbling liquid spilling over his hand, dripping down his wrist.</p><p>The world comes to a halt in a heavy surge. Slow, slurring. And that’s when Oswald realizes who the bullet hit.</p><p>Looking down, he frowns as deep red slowly blooms across his stomach and soaks into his beautiful suit. He doubts Olga will be able to clean it.</p><p>Then there’s pressure, crushing pressure, and the searing, tearing pain. He tries to cry out, for help maybe, but he can only squeak. His vision blurs and spins, a dizzying sway. There’s bustling all around him as several of his men flock to him, catching him in their strong arms as he stumbles backward. From the crowd before him Ed appears, and he looks desperately frightened. He frantically pushes himself past the others as he’s shouting something, but Oswald can’t understand, his brain feels too fuzzy. He coughs and a spray of crimson spurts from his lips.</p><p>
  <em>Oh dear.</em>
</p><p>And Ed is instantly at his side as his men lay him down on the cold cobblestones. His head is haloed by the beautiful outdoor lighting, his face blurring and coming back into focus as he hovers above Oswald. He looks like an angel.</p><p>“You’re gonna be okay,” comes his wonderful voice, and it’s slowed as if floating on a cloud. Oswald feels the hurried swipe of Ed’s fingers at the corner of his lips, and his hand comes away shining red and dripping. “Stay awake,” he says, patting and stroking Oswald’s cheek. “Oswald, stay awake for me.”</p><p>Sirens scream, flashing lights paint the buildings.</p><p>But Oswald can feel himself slipping away. It’s all too much, and even Ed can’t save him now. Black bleeds in around the edges of his vision as his eyes flutter. He takes one last breath and Ed’s halo fades into darkness.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oswald lives in a rose-colored world.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He can feel himself shaking. Trembling in place as he surfaces, muscles itching to move. The air is cold and sharp and it presses against Oswald’s lungs, filling his chest with its empty weight. There’s something soft nestled behind his head but it doesn’t help the aching.</p><p>He stretches his fingers, mind screaming at him to <em>get up.</em> Why is his body so tired, so heavy? He strains and struggles, and all the while his eyes threaten to slip shut. He could stop resisting, give in, but his heart is racing now, blood coursing through his veins. With all his strength, he throws his arms out, feeling the muscles squeezing and the tendons tightening. His chest expands with each deep breath, and his pulse begins to slow.</p><p>It’s a comfort, too, to find that he’s tucked into his own bed, with his silk sheets and throw blankets wrapped around him. The drapes are drawn over the windows so that only a sliver of morning light seeps in. He’s safe and alone, so it seems. But there’s a luxurious forest green robe hung on the bedpost, one he knows is not his own yet knows it’s tied to someone…  and he only hopes that the little skip in his heartbeat means he’s correctly guessed its owner.</p><p>He pushes himself upright, shuddering as the thick layers of blankets slip from his shoulders. His beloved gold brocade robe is draped over the end of the bed, just within reach, and he gratefully wraps himself in it, rubbing his arms to warm himself up.</p><p>Something is… different. Or <em>feels</em> different, and Oswald can’t seem to place what it is. He looks around the room and it <em>is</em> his, everything is just as he remembered: there are the photographs of his mother hung in round bronze frames, his quilts and knitted blankets, his cluttered makeup vanity in the corner, his bird skull cane leaning against his favorite damask armchair. Still, Oswald cannot shake this feeling, this chilliness that consumes him.</p><p>He’s about to call out for someone—maybe Olga—just to know he’s not alone, when something else catches his attention.</p><p>He reaches for the gold picture frame on the bedside table and instantly recognizes his own beaming face. As his eyes pan over to the man beside him, who is dressed sharply in a classic black suit, his vision blurs, a cloudy smudge forming over the photograph. Oswald’s hand is pressed to the man’s lapel, proudly displaying the ring shining on his finger, and suddenly he can actually feel the weight of the metal band. He’s married, that much is obvious, but he can’t focus, can’t tell who his husband is.</p><p>There’s a man in the kitchen. Tall, with soft brown hair that gleams in the morning light. He’s wearing the very same green velvet robe that Oswald had seen hanging in the bedroom.</p><p>“Ed?”</p><p>The man sets a tea kettle on the stove and turns around with a bright smile. A delicate, gold ‘R’ is stitched into the fabric of his breast pocket. “Good morning, my love. Sit down, breakfast is ready.”</p><p><em>Oh.</em> Of course it’s him, who else could be padding around the kitchen this early? And the house—<em>their</em> house—is adorned with photographs of the two of them together, joyous, loving, and tender.</p><p>Just outside the arched windows, the skies are tinted pink. Oswald doesn’t bat an eye as he takes his seat and waits while Richard—his husband—places a teacup before him, then a plate of eggs and toast, and drops a kiss into his hair.</p><p>Oswald can’t help but blush under such affection, and his cheeks glow rosy red as he holds back his own fond smile. He focuses on his plate and tries to will away the heat flushing his face.</p><p>“Did you sleep well last night?”</p><p>He lifts his gaze to Richard, who watches him sweetly as he pokes at his eggs. Oswald’s memory of the previous night is… blurry to say the least, and his mind is still a bit fuzzy from sleep. But he nods anyway, not wanting to worry his dear husband.</p><p>“Last night was rough for you,” Richard continues, and Oswald strains to remember <em>what</em> happened. “I want you to get some rest today, alright?”</p><p>There’s a pain in his stomach, one that sharpens just as quick as it fades away. Oswald suppresses a grimace and nods dutifully.</p><p>“I already called work and told them I’m not coming in. Today is all about doting on <em>you,</em>” Richard says with an adoring look as he gestures towards Oswald with his fork. Richard’s GCPD identification card rests on the kitchen counter, forgotten for the day.</p><p>Oswald smiles in appreciation. Maybe he does live a happy life after all, here with Edw- no- <em>Richard,</em> the man who loves him against all odds. “Darling, forgive me, but,” he traces a finger around the rim of the steaming cup, “where is Ed?”</p><p>Richard frowns and sets down his fork. “He’s in Arkham, of course. Surely you remember- he was taken into custody not long after our wedding.” He reaches out and touches the back of his hand to Oswald’s forehead, the cold metal of his ring a shock to Oswald’s skin. “Do you feel alright, my love?”</p><p>Oswald twists his own ring—a simple band, not quite as sparkly as what he’d prefer—and casts Richard a reassuring smile. “Of course.” He bites his tongue to keep from asking any more questions but he cannot shake the worry clouding his mind. <em>What happened to Ed?</em> How did he end up in Arkham stripes again, right after Oswald’s wedding no less? Oswald frowns and scoops up a generous mound of sugar with his spoon. Was Ed even at his wedding? What has become of them, of their friendship?</p><p>Lights flash like burning red sunspots before his eyes and he flinches, his grip tightening on his utensil. There’s a quiet buzzing, a hum which builds and builds until it reverberates all around him, like strips of bright fluorescent bulbs glowing with electricity. And then he hears them: droning, echoing voices, hovering around him, speaking to him with sounds he can hardly understand. </p><p>“<em>Os? Oswald?</em>” Oswald freezes with a gasping breath. That voice sounds so familiar, like- </p><p>The spoon of sugar slips from his hand and spills into his teacup with a startling clink. “Did you say something?”</p><p>Richard pauses with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. “No…?”</p><p>“You didn’t hear that?”</p><p>“Oswald,” his husband fusses, “you’re worrying me.”</p><p>The lights… the voice… it had all been so real, <em>too</em> real and so tangible that it sparked a visceral reaction in him. How can he be the only one with a pounding pulse and shaking legs? “Must have been the pipes,” Oswald finally offers with an uneasy grin and a flap of his hand. He snatches up his toast and hastily slathers it with strawberry jam.</p><p>Richard continues to eye him carefully as if waiting for him to cry or collapse or have some sort of meltdown. “You’re sure you’re alright? I mean, I can call Jim and cancel tonight’s dinner plans-”</p><p>Oswald tries not to choke on his toast and pushes it into his cheek. “J- Jim? Um,” he swallows, bread sticking to his dry throat and making him grimace, “No, no need. I’ll be fine.” When he takes a sip of his tea, it burns his lips and he can hardly taste the sweet vanilla.</p><p>“Alright,” Richard says, touching Oswald’s chin sweetly as he rises and collects their plates (Oswald doesn’t remember eating but he glances down and his scrambled eggs are cleaned from his dish).</p><p>“Um, darling?” Oswald questions in as chirpy a voice as he can muster, “What would you say to… making a plan together?”</p><p>“What sort of plan?”</p><p>“As wonderful as a day of R and R sounds, I fear the <em>monotony</em> might sooner kill me than the stress,” he chuckles nervously. <em>(Why is he so nervous?)</em></p><p>Richard shakes his head just slightly, his brow still furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Well,” Oswald laces his fingers together, bending them almost painfully, “How about a heist? Doesn’t matter where, just as long as we’re together, and I know how much you love heists-” He cuts himself off, frowning. No, Ed is—<em>was</em>—the one who loved heists, not Richard. Oswald’s husband’s face etches with concern and his eyes darken like a cold sky at dusk.</p><p>“Oswald,” Richard begins slowly, his voice careful as if on eggshells, “We’ve talked about this.”</p><p>A heavy stone settles on Oswald’s chest but still he can’t let go. “Have we? I mean, if you would just hear me out maybe you would-”</p><p>“We are not criminals-”</p><p>“Well I <em>am!</em> And I’m the best in the game, if we could just put our heads together-” His shaking shoulders are suddenly held firm and he knows he’s already lost.</p><p>“<em>No,</em> Oswald. I’m sorry,” Richard says, and he leans down and kisses Oswald softly to make it all better.</p><p>There’s a sinking in his gut and Oswald can’t manage a smile.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The day is slow and faded, minutes and hours ticking away in a hazy crawl. Breakfast seems to be only a faint memory which Oswald struggles to hold onto each time he feels it slipping away. But he remembers Richard, and the feeling of his soft hands and cold wedding ring, and he remembers that Ed is far away and gone.<p>“I want to visit him,” he tells his husband as he wraps his robe around himself, hair still dripping from his bath, but Richard shakes his head.</p><p>“You remember what happened last time,” he says cryptically as he rolls up one sleeve and drains the tub, but Oswald has no idea what he means.</p><p>“I… don’t.” His heart pulls, yearns to break free. He can hardly picture Ed’s face, and there’s not a single photograph of him in the mansion.</p><p>“You can’t go back to that life, Oswald. We’ve come too far from it.”</p><p>He notices there’s no cool touch of a knife against his leg, nor the hidden weight of a gun in his pocket. The mansion seems emptier, more of his life missing. So this is what he gave up. His empire. His livelihood. His everything.</p><p>But this is what Richard wants… and Oswald loves his own husband enough to want him to be happy, right? Yet Oswald feels… <em>sad</em> for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. The ache remains in the back of his mind, just out of reach.</p><p>He tucks himself into the porch swing (the porch swing had always been here, right?) and gazes out at the misty lawn, watching the drizzle of rain painted against the rosy sky, feeling the tickle of the light breeze in his hair. The wind carries a whisper to him, then muffled words he doesn’t recognize.</p><p>And those lights flash across his eyelids again. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squeezes his eyes shut tight as the color burns bright. It drives deep into his skull and then fades, leaving him slumped against the cushions. He wants to be held.</p><p>Richard finds him eventually and, while scolding him for sitting out in the cold, he sweeps Oswald up to his feet and urges him back inside. Oswald doesn’t have it in him to protest, just takes the gentle hand offered to him and does as he’s told. The lights chase him, the voices creep behind. He doesn’t mention it to his husband.</p><p>They sit together at the dining table in simple silence. At the bench seat that stretches across the arched window. By the portrait of Oswald’s father. Oswald taps his fingertips against his knuckles as Richard brews more tea, one of them clearly more content than the other to throw the day away in idleness. Richard even settles behind the mahogany desk and scribbles through some paperwork, working under the warm pink light that pools into the room. It feels… strange. Discordant, like a beautiful, rich wine served with the wrong meal. That is not Richard’s desk, those are not his neatly-arranged gold pens or his discarded sticky notes or his <em>glasses</em> folded atop a stack of his favorite anatomy books.</p><p>The ache in Oswald’s mind is stronger now.</p><p>He makes a plan to find Ed, no matter what it takes, even if he has to slip out of bed in the dead of night and walk into the cold city alone. But the sky darkens to the color of Oswald’s favored red wine and his body grows heavier, far too heavy to hold upright. He gravitates to the plush sofa by the crackling fire, his eyes already slipping shut before he can even sink into the cushions.</p><p>“<em>Oswald…</em>”</p><p>Springs creak and the sofa dips as a warm body settles in beside him. He’s so close to drifting off that he can’t open his tired eyes, but he feels lips against his temple and knows these are his husband’s loving arms pulling him close.</p><p>“You’ve had a long day,” Richard murmurs, the sound vibrating in his chest, thrumming against Oswald’s ear, the rise and fall of his breathing lulling him to sleep. “Just rest.”</p><p>And he sinks deeper and deeper until his cheek is pressed to a cool, silky pillow and he’s half-buried in a plush bed. Lights flash red on his eyelids. The soothing aroma of vanilla fades.</p><p>“<em>Os,</em>” a voice whispers, “<em>wake up. Wake up, my love.</em>”</p><p>He rolls over and meets soft pink lips, brushes his thumb over the high ridge of his cheekbone, trails down along the gentle curve of his jaw to that slight dimple on his chin.</p><p>“<em>Wake up, my love,</em>” he whispers again, and Oswald smiles in return.</p><p>“I’m awake,” Oswald murmurs, content to just keep kissing him, to be wrapped up in warmth and the spicy-sweet scent of ginger and honey. He could drown in those deep chocolate brown eyes, and they seem to pull him in, tempting him to fall.</p><p>Deep crimson light pours in through the windows.</p><p>
  <em>Oswald, wake up, my love. My love…</em>
</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The constant shuffling of shoes across slick linoleum is enough to drive Ed mad.<p>“Will you stay still for a goddamn minute?” he snaps, although his own legs bounce as he leans forward in the creaky plastic hospital chair.</p><p>Richard stops his pacing, squeezes his eyes shut, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you <em>have</em> a heart in there?” he huffs out, tone equally biting as Ed’s.</p><p>“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ed flies up from his chair.</p><p>Richard’s eyes, which always glimmered so softly, now blaze with something Ed never thought the man capable of feeling. “Oswald’s been shot! On <em>your</em> watch!”</p><p>“Oswald is my best friend!” Ed hisses, “He’s <em>everything</em> to me and if you think for one <em>second</em> that you know him better-”</p><p>“He’s going to <em>die</em> thinking I don’t love him more than anything in this world-”</p><p>Like a raw nerve has been jolted with electricity, Ed’s hand closes around cold metal and he whips the gun out from the waistband of his pants. “Shut the <em>hell</em> up!”</p><p>Richard stares down the glinting barrel with red-rimmed eyes, without so much as a glance around the waiting room for a savior. This is a moment to keep catalogued in Ed’s mind: losing Oswald can cut Richard down and strip him of any will to fight he has left.</p><p>“You love him? You <em>lied</em> to him,” Ed seethes through gritted teeth, the gun trembling in his hand, “you sold him out to Gordon, his blood is on <em>your</em> hands-”</p><p>“How dare you-”</p><p>“Wh- wait. Wait,” Ed splutters, his blood turning to ice, brain stuttering to a stop, “You- did you do this? Did you-” The air is pressed from his lungs as Richard turns white. “You shot him,” Ed whispers with his last remaining breath, “<em>Didn’t you?</em>”</p><p>“Eddie?”</p><p>He stills, breath catching.</p><p>“I heard what happened, I came as soon as I could-” Isabella pauses, wringing her delicate hands, her doe eyes catching on the gun just as Ed shakily slips it back into his pocket, “Is everything alright?”</p><p>“Everything’s fine,” he says sharply, and his voice tremors as he holds his stare on the man who tore the earth from beneath his feet. Richard, wordless and looking absolutely crushed and horrified, only shakes his head. Ed doesn’t have it in him to let him off the hook just yet, no matter how innocent his tears may seem.</p><p>“You’re stressed,” Isabella says calmly, as though placating a tense child, and Ed is <em>not</em> a child.</p><p>“<em>Oswald’s been shot, Isabella!</em>” he snaps before he can stop himself, his anger still simmering even as she seems to flinch and pull back. He feels his head spinning, veins pulsing.</p><p>Isabella straightens her back and blinks as though shaking off her feathers, as though Ed isn’t completely losing it. “You could do with some tea. I’ll head down to the cafe and see what they have, alright?” she chirps, and just as she turns away, Ed <em>swears</em> on all that he has that there’s the barest hint of a smile on her crimson-painted lips. It fills him with something that leaves him frozen in his place, unable to move or tear his eyes away even after she’s disappeared down the hall.</p><p>“I think I’ll…” Richard heaves a sigh and swipes a hand down his tired face, “I need some strong coffee, or- or something. I don’t know.” He carries a cold air with him as he brushes past Ed, and Ed realizes how little his suit jacket does to keep him warm, how nothing can keep him warm now.</p><p>He <em>wants</em> to blame Richard. With all of this poison burning his insides, he needs someone to <em>hate.</em> Richard is the perfect target. The start of it all, the start of the end.</p><p>Yet, all Ed can think of is Isabella’s hidden smile, blood red.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed will never shake the image from his mind, the <em>feeling</em> of it all. The burst of the bullet. The screams. The cold, creeping dread. Finding Oswald in the center of the chaos, his eyes glazed over, a horrendous slick red painting his waistcoat. And seeing his henchmen carefully lay him upon the ground like a delicate, dying bird.<p>Ed didn’t even have to <em>think</em> before his legs were moving, rushing him to Oswald. His cheeks were still warm under Ed’s palms. Blood trickled from his white lips. <em>Oh, god no.</em> The bullet had most likely hit his stomach. Ed had wiped away the sickening red trailing from Oswald’s mouth, as if that would stop the inevitable.</p><p>Oswald was dying.</p><p>Tubes down his throat. Blood streaked and drying on his cheek. They had to cut through his beloved suit. A hand pushed against Ed’s chest, shoving him away from the ER. He pushed back when, between the frantically moving bodies bustling about, he saw the horrific gush of blood bubble up. Oswald’s eyes were closed, like he was asleep (<em>please, god, be asleep</em>).</p><p>Now the surgery is finished, the bullet removed, but Oswald still hasn’t opened his eyes. His speech paper trembles in Ed’s hands and he clutches it tighter, crumpling the carefully written words, the sprinkling of blood, the ominous owl stamp and handwritten warning. <em>Bye-bye little bird.</em> Every time he reads it, it makes his stomach drop. Somebody—possibly even Richard—has made an attempt on Oswald’s life and failed. Ed will make sure they never live to try it again.</p><p>He goes to Oswald, sits by his bed, watches the stillness of his eyelashes against his cheeks, hoping hopelessly that they’ll flutter and he’ll be okay. Oswald’s hand is limp and just barely warm in his own. He doesn’t know what exactly pushes him to say it, only that he feels something <em>break</em> inside of him. “Oswald,” Ed pleads, “wake up, my love.” A sob wells up in his throat, like a surging wave of everything he’s been holding back. He chokes on it. “<em>My love.</em>”</p><p>But Oswald doesn’t wake, and Ed has not felt this empty in years. The coldness in his chest just won’t disappear. His own heart follows the same careful beeping of the ECG monitor, the slow rhythm which he holds his breath waiting for, hoping each beep won’t be the last.</p><p>He needs to go home, to the manor. Needs to shower, wash away Oswald’s blood stains which he can’t seem to rub away from his skin. If only he could curl up in his bed, under the covers, and pretend that Oswald is just downstairs preparing his tea. Still, every time he blinks, he’s in the same cold, clinically-clean hospital room with Oswald—bold, passionate, fierce Oswald—motionless and absolutely silent beside him.</p><p>A tear slips down his cheek and he’s about to reach up and wipe it away when he feels something, a tremble of life in his palm where Oswald’s hand still rests. Muscles tensing, he frantically scans Oswald’s calm, pale face. Are his eyes playing tricks on him? It can’t be-</p><p>This time, he <em>knows</em> Oswald’s fingers twitch. Ed freezes. Waits. Sucks in one last breath. Waits.</p><p>And then Oswald’s eyelashes flutter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As though the work of fate, Oswald finds himself recovering under Ed's care once again.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The last thing he remembers before the glare of fluorescent bursts on his eyes is the soft brush of Ed’s lips on his own. His heart aches, longing for him, longing to be held in his arms once again. <em>My love.</em> He still wonders if it was real, even as his eyes flutter open and he’s gazing up at a bright white, tiled ceiling, not at all the gold crown moulding above his bed at the manor. A steady beep nearby signals where he is.</p><p>The kiss was only a dream.</p><p>“Os? Os, it’s okay. I’m here,” comes a hurried, familiar voice. Relief washes through his heart like a wave. His hand is being held, squeezed, stroked. Ed’s suit is rumpled and smeared with red. What the hell happened?</p><p>“Ed,” he manages in a hoarse whisper, “it’s you.”</p><p>“Of course it’s me.”</p><p>“You’re here.”</p><p>For a fleeting moment, Ed’s features seem to turn to stone. “I never left, Os,” he answers quietly.</p><p>“Why am I here?” he swallows around the grating dryness in his throat, “I- I don’t-”</p><p>The thin mattress shifts as Ed, still clasping his hand, sits close to him. “Two days ago,” he takes a deep breath as though steadying himself, “you were shot. In the stomach, to be exact.”</p><p>“The Founder’s Dinner,” Oswald whispers. </p><p>“The GCPD is working to find the culprit but,” Ed scoffs bitterly, “so far, they’ve proven themselves incapable. As usual.”</p><p>If Oswald closes his eyes, there’s a vague memory: twinkling lights, Ed’s eyes in the crowd, and the startling burst of a bullet, tearing through the air, tearing through <em>him.</em> His body aches. But something else happened before the bullet- something that makes his heart hitch with fear, even though he can’t recall <em>what.</em> Oswald strains to remember, struggles to reach to the back of his mind and snatch it. “Ed, a- at the party-”</p><p>“No, it’s okay. I understand. Just rest for now.”</p><p>Oswald shakes his head fretfully. Ed <em>doesn’t</em> understand, and he’s apparently oblivious to whatever else Oswald faced that night.</p><p>“You had every right to be upset with me. To hate me, even.”</p><p>Now <em>that,</em> Oswald does remember- although it’s less of the actual fight and more of the ice-cold feeling it gave him: like his very core was carved out. <em>Hate</em> isn’t the right word for it, though.</p><p>“Oh- um, Barbara came by. She left those for you,” he points to a bouquet of pink flowers resting on the windowsill, “She refused to leave until the doctors told us you- you’d pull through.” There’s a subtle break in his voice, like a hairline crack in glass, barely noticeable but still distinguishable. Oswald only nods and pretends he doesn’t hear it.</p><p>“Oswald, I- I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, and then the words just keep spilling from his lips, “This whole time I’ve been so <em>stupid,</em> and- and, god, if I lost you after the way we left things-”</p><p>Oswald hushes him swiftly. There will be a time for them to discuss all of that, but for now his mind still feels as though it’s stuck in molasses. His eyes threaten to slip shut and he’s sure he’s never been more tired. When they fall into silence again, he drifts off into a daze as his mind becomes as blank and empty as the misty gray sky outside the window. Weightless, floating.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>Oswald cracks open one eye to study Ed’s fretful face.</p><p>“Do you need me to call someone-”</p><p>“Just tired.”</p><p>It doesn’t seem to put Ed at ease but he nods anyway.</p><p>“Ed?”</p><p>He perks up. “Os?”</p><p>“Richard- is he-”</p><p>The lights in Ed’s eyes seem to dim and he dips his head in a nod. “He’s okay. Hardly left your side,” he mutters.</p><p>There’s another ache in Oswald’s core but it’s not the bullet wound. The last time they spoke, he nearly threatened Richard’s life, barely restraining his blood-red rage. And Richard still stayed with him. He doesn’t know how to reconcile this with his betrayal.</p><p>“I’ll get you some water,” Ed finally mumbles, lightly squeezing Oswald’s arm before leaving him alone. Even after he’s gone, Oswald can still feel the imprints of his fingertips on his arm, warm and reassuring. He wants to remember this.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>For the first time since waking up, Oswald has several moments of solitude—something rare and desirable, usually—but it leaves him feeling far colder than he’d like to be. He couldn’t admit it, but he doesn’t want to be alone right now. <em>He doesn’t want to be alone.</em><p>He knows Ed’s not going to return with a glass of water like he promised.</p><p>There are purple tulips at the foot of his bed. They don’t make him smile anymore. Neither does Richard’s presence.</p><p>“You came,” Oswald says, tone bordering on bitterness.</p><p>He shifts uncomfortably in the doorway. “Of course.”</p><p>“Sit.”</p><p>They settle and drown in heavy silence, Richard’s eyes glued to the floor, Oswald twisting his hospital bracelet around and around his wrist. The air is stiff and cold and Oswald can’t breathe, there’s such a dreadful weight on his chest.</p><p>“I wasn’t faking it,” Richard begins softly.</p><p>Oswald looks up questioningly.</p><p>“I really do love you, Oswald,” he clarifies, huffing a cheerless laugh even though his voice breaks at the words. He can’t look at Oswald. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for <em>everything</em> I’ve put you through. You gave me your trust and I…” His voice is so brittle that it breaks, a stark contrast to the soft rumble Oswald is used to.</p><p>Oswald wishes he had words, wishes he wasn’t so goddamn tired that he can barely even process what’s happening. All of this pain and anguish seeps from Richard and throbs in Oswald’s heart, yet all he can do is lie back and hurt. Like he’s only an invisible spectator watching it all unfold.</p><p>Richard’s hand inches forward, as though shy to take Oswald’s. As though it would be too cold. “I wish I could have given you the love you deserve. But <em>he</em> will.”</p><p>Someone must have slipped something into Oswald’s morphine drip, because there’s no way Richard actually just eluded to Ed being in love with him. Almost like Ed <em>told</em> Richard that it’s so. Yet… despite his distraction with that statement, Oswald feels there’s an unsettling finality to Richard’s words. An unspoken goodbye.</p><p>“What about us? What happens now?” Oswald asks weakly, but he knows. He’s gotten too comfortable, he doesn’t want to let go.</p><p>“Your heart could never be mine. It was always his,” Richard says quietly, sadly, but without bitterness.</p><p>It’s not the first time simple words have crushed Oswald and left him feeling chilled to the bone. He longs for the days of fluttering hearts and suppressed swoons, when his heart was lighter and he felt an unmistakable hope bursting within. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but Richard is already shaking his head.</p><p>“You have nothing to apologize for.” He leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, then to his lips, one last time.</p><p>Hot tears stream steadily down Oswald’s cheeks. “<em>I love you,</em>” he squeaks futilely.</p><p>Richard cups his cheek, thumb stroking lovingly. “<em>I know,</em>” his eyes trail back and forth, as though committing this image of Oswald to memory, like a memento he’ll keep tucked away forever, “I’ll never stop loving you.”</p><p>Part of Oswald wants to cry out, to beg him not to leave. But there’s a world of difference between the two of them, and Oswald knows deep down that they could never last. That they’ll always be two mismatched puzzle pieces, a pair that fit if he tries hard enough but will never fit properly. And eventually he would break this man who, against all odds, found a place in his heart.</p><p>Richard pauses on his way out the door, out of Oswald’s life, a tear trickling from his eye. “I’ll always be grateful for the time we had together, my love.” </p><p>And then he’s gone, and Oswald crumples in on himself.</p><p>The room is cold. His chest aches, he can hardly give any more tears.</p><p>Eventually the bed dips beside him and he’s pulled into Ed’s arms.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ed murmurs into his hair, “I know you love him.”</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Oswald doesn’t remember falling asleep with Ed in the chair beside him, their hands clasped loosely and dried tears tracking salt on his own cheeks. He’s so exhausted he can barely lift his heavy head from the pillow to watch the glasses slip down the nose of his sleeping friend. Ed’s finally replaced his bloodied suit with a soft green sweater.<p>It’s a blurry morning as they prepare to depart from the hospital, and Oswald feels like every movement is as slow and heavy as though underwater. Legs stiff as boards, he staggers into the little bathroom and strips out of his hospital gown, his bare skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air envelops him. He’s grateful for the thick sweater and soft flannel pants that Barbara brought from the manor for him, although it’s a mismatch of striped knit and red plaid.</p><p>Ed dutifully waits just outside the door, wheelchair at the ready and his expression stone-like. Oswald considers arguing, telling him he’d rather walk and keep whatever remaining dignity he has left, but each step seems to leave him breathless. He sits in the wheelchair without a word, resigned to the idea that at least he’s finally going home.</p><p>Naturally, Ed barely pushes him a foot from the door when there’s the tell-tale tapping of shiny black pumps and suddenly Isabelle stands between them and their escape. They halt abruptly, Ed seeming somewhat startled for reasons Oswald doesn’t have the energy to guess at.</p><p>“Oh, there you are,” Isabelle says without the slightest hint of surprise in her tone. If Oswald had any strength he would glare a hole right through her blonde head.</p><p>“I- Isabella?” Ed stutters quickly, “I was just going to- I mean, are you alright?”</p><p>“Eddie, I…” she glances down at Oswald, looking rather pitiful and haggard with his unkempt hair and sickly, pale complexion, “I hope to see you at home?”</p><p>And as if the bullet to the gut and the hole in his heart weren’t enough, Ed releases Oswald’s wheelchair, brushes a hand against Isabelle’s cheek, and leans in for a kiss. Oswald tries incredibly hard not to sulk and even harder not to cry.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Isabella. It’s just for a little while,” Ed murmurs, and Oswald can see, just over his shoulder, her downcast eyes, the way her lips pull and how she nods weakly in understanding. It would be a victory for Oswald were it not painfully obvious that Ed can’t bear to part from her.</p><p>The ride home seems to take an eternity. They don’t speak. Ed’s eyes sweep the road, back and forth, back and forth, and Oswald can tell there’s something—or rather, someone—on his mind, although he doesn’t need to guess who. He turns his attention back to the rain-speckled window and looks on as the light slips from the evening sky.</p><p>As they finally reach the outskirts of the city and close in on the manor, Oswald can hardly keep his eyes open anymore. They’re about five minutes out but the thought of sleeping the rest of the way seems impossible to resist. Just when he’s finally gotten comfortable with his cheek nestled against the shoulder rest, he’s startled out of his daze by the click of Ed’s seatbelt as they roll to a stop in the driveway.</p><p>“It’s okay, Os,” he soothes when Oswald jerks upright, “we’re home.”</p><p>“What time is it?”</p><p>“Close to eight. Come on, let’s get you inside.”</p><p>Ed’s clambered out of the car and rounded to the passenger side before Oswald can even muster the energy to blink. He wonders briefly how much painkiller he’s been sedated with before the thought slips from his mind just as quick.</p><p>Even with Ed here, the mansion feels dark and cold, the air hanging heavy as though under the depths of the sea. Oswald folds his arms over himself, rubbing gently, wishing his sweater was a bit thicker. Perhaps if he curls up against the couch cushions he’ll warm up a little. He’d ask Ed to start a fire as well, but he doesn’t want to impose.</p><p>Ed leaves his duffle bag of bloodied clothing and bottles of pills (for both pain and infection) in the doorway and needlessly rushes to help him. “Here, let me just-” he starts, situating himself so he has an arm supporting Oswald’s back and a large, warm hand pressed to his stomach, over his wound. He steadily lowers him onto the sofa- but Oswald wants to sit down on his own. He doesn’t want Ed to feel this obligation to help, doesn’t want to be a burden. How wretched Oswald must seem now in comparison to Isabelle, Ed’s perfect, glowing light.</p><p>“Okie doke,” Ed says, once he’s gotten Oswald settled and has practically surrounded him with blankets and cushions. “If you need to move at all, take this pillow,” he presses one into his hands, “and just hold it against your stomach. It’ll help alleviate some of the pain.” His voice is gentle and instructive, the very same voice doctors use for fragile patients, and Oswald feels himself breaking.</p><p>“Ed,” he forcefully rubs a stray tear away from his cheek, “you can go if you need to. I know Isabelle is waiting for you.”</p><p>“Isabella is not my priority right now.”</p><p>Despite everything, those simple words drive a stake right to Oswald’s heart and he has to choke down the sob that lurches into his throat.</p><p>“How about dinner?” Ed declares suddenly, clasping his hands together. “You should be on an all-liquid diet, I make a mean tomato soup-”</p><p>“Ed-”</p><p>“You wait here, I’ll go get that started!” Ed chirps, though he barely looks at Oswald as he gives him a hurried pat on the knee and practically bounds from the room. It’s jarring and strange and Oswald is left feeling more unsettled than before. Why is Ed suddenly so different with him?</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Half an hour later, Oswald finds himself tucked into a chair at the head of the dining table, a soft pillow stuffed behind his back, a blanket draped over his legs, and a steaming bowl of rich tomato soup placed under his nose. Ed needlessly fluffs his pillow for the third time before taking a seat close beside him and reaching for some bread and a butter knife. He seems entirely himself again, as though he didn’t just choose Oswald over his own girlfriend. Lifting the spoon to his lips, Oswald blinks his tears away, knowing better than to read into any of this.<p>“Are you warm enough?” Ed’s lowered his knife and is staring intently at him.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“You’re shaking, Os.”</p><p>Not hiding his emotions as well as he thought, apparently. Ed’s eyes continue to bore into him, soft and swimming with worry. “Just a draft,” he answers quickly, hoping Ed will turn his attention away from the tears welling up on Oswald’s lower lashes and back to his bowl of soup. Trembling, he sets his spoon on the table and reaches for a butter knife, and, thankfully, Ed’s eyes finally trail away.</p><p>As Oswald leans forward for a slice of bread, he releases a gasp before he can even fully register the pain, and then suddenly it’s like the gash in his stomach is being torn wide open. He slumps back into his chair with a cry.</p><p>Ed is by his side in an instant, hands lingering at his back, clinging to him. “Oswald?”</p><p>“I’m okay,” he wheezes, waving him off.</p><p>“Oh dear. Here, let me see,” Ed murmurs as he crouches beside his chair, and his fingers freeze only inches away from the buttons on Oswald’s pajama shirt. “May I?”</p><p>It takes Oswald a moment to realize what he’s asking, and he eventually gives a dazed nod, his cheeks warming as he looks into those deep, passionate eyes.</p><p>Ed moves slowly, methodically undoing the buttons, his knuckles brushing against Oswald’s skin every now and then. Oswald tenses each time, his heart only beating quicker and quicker. <em>He’s just checking the stitches. That’s all.</em> When Ed reaches the last button, Oswald hardly manages a steadying breath.</p><p>Even with his shirt open and a draft creeping in, he’s never felt so warm.</p><p>Ed takes to carefully peeling the bandage away at one corner, his eyes flitting from his working hands to Oswald’s face to ensure he hasn’t hurt him. Oswald can’t break his gaze away, can’t help but watch and be utterly enraptured. When the covering is removed just enough for him to examine the deep wound, Ed gingerly grazes the pads of his fingers across Oswald’s skin, making his heart stutter, and presses gently around the laceration. No blood wells up, and the pain almost seems to fade under Ed’s sweet caresses, as though Oswald could simply melt at his touch alone.</p><p>“Everything’s A-okay,” he eventually says, smoothing the bandage back over the wound and giving Oswald an encouraging smile. In the blink of an eye, something changes in his face- something melts like sweet chocolate and leaves his expression impossibly <em>softer</em> than it was only a second ago, and now it seems as though Ed is scarcely breathing. Oswald can’t tear his eyes away, almost like they’re locked with Ed’s… and if Ed could hold him under some spell like this, drain him of his life essence and leave him breathless and intoxicated, he wouldn’t care. He’d let himself be enthralled over and over again if it meant Ed was his and he was Ed’s.</p><p>God, what is he <em>doing?</em></p><p>The moment breaks like strings untethered, Ed’s captivating eyes falling, his chest expanding as he finally breathes. “I suppose you should finish your soup before it gets cold,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t spare Oswald another glance when he rises and stoically returns to his own chair.</p><p>The meal continues and ends in silence, save for the quiet clink of spoons and the tick of the clock on the mantle. Thankfully Ed doesn’t seem to hear the pounding of Oswald’s heart threatening to beat out of his chest.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The night stretches out long and slow and Ed doesn’t close his eyes once- even if he <em>could</em> sleep, he wouldn’t dream of it. Every time he blinks, all he sees is the wide, red stretch of a smile, cold and cruel. Isabella’s smile. Her lipstick matches almost exactly to the owl stamp marking Oswald’s speech notes.<p>He worries. Wonders. Keeps the curtains drawn. Hunched over his desk, he studies the note, holds it up to the light and under a magnifying glass until his eyes are sore and bloodshot and he can feel his bones ache with fatigue. If he had access to his forensics lab at the GCPD, he could run a chromatography test on the inks, thus determining precisely which pen was used to write the threatening message. <em>Bye-bye, little bird.</em> It leaves him chilled to his core.</p><p>But for now, he’s stuck at home, without the advanced technology that could make pinpointing a culprit a bit easier. The obvious answer is to slip out into the night, to pick the lock to the forensics lab and carry out his task, but he’s not going to leave Oswald alone in such a weakened state. He performs his own test with strips of paper and dots of ink from every pen he can find in the manor, to no avail. The colors stretch and bleed in a fusion, but not one of the faded patterns of inks matches that of the note.</p><p>Ed tosses his glasses onto the desk and presses his fingers into his eyes. At least Oswald is safe, for now. As the morning light begins to glow brighter through the cracks in the curtains, Ed gets up to brew a strong cup of coffee (or rather, several cups) and then settles back at his desk.</p><p>Shockingly, Oswald sleeps soundly until about an hour after the sun rises- he’s never been one to rest the whole night through, so Ed chalks it up to utter exhaustion. He’s certainly been through enough in the last several weeks to warrant at least ten years of continuous sleep. So when Ed spots him staggering along in his silk pajamas and robe, he’s quick to confront. </p><p>“Oswald,” Ed scolds, stuffing the note back into his pocket, “where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>After a split second of bewilderment, Oswald arches an eyebrow. “To the kitchen? To make tea? Ed, I’ll be <em>fine-</em>”</p><p>“No,” Ed interrupts swiftly. As endearing as Oswald’s determination is (despite the underlying obstinance sharpening his tone), Ed would rather run himself ragged running back and forth to serve Oswald tea than have him rip a single stitch out. He ushers Oswald to the sofa, holds him by the shoulders, and steadily lowers him down onto the cushions.</p><p>“Edward, I’m not elderly,” he quips as Ed pulls a heavy knitted blanket over his legs.</p><p>“Of course not. You’re a spring chicken and you’ve been shot,” Ed answers without hesitation as he tucks the throw around him, “Now stay here, will you?”</p><p>It feels like it’s been years since Ed last prepared a cup of tea for Oswald, and he wonders if he’ll even remember how to perfectly balance the sweetness of the honey with the acidity of the lemon. Each time Isabella brewed this tea, she would always spoon in too much honey, so that it would be sickeningly sweet. Hiding his disgust, Ed would force himself to drink it for her sake, although his mind would always wander to that night on the couch, when Oswald gifted him a wonderfully blended cup to soothe his throat. Since then he’s always craved it.</p><p>As Oswald waits semi-patiently in the living room, Ed bounds to the kitchen, fills the tea kettle with enough water for two, and puts it on the stove to boil. He snatches a lemon out of the refrigerator and takes a second to inhale its bright citrus scent before cutting it into neat slices. Just as the kettle begins to screech, he swiftly pulls it off the burner and pours the water over each teabag, his glasses fogging up as the steam rises. He drops lemon slices into the cups to steep and meld with the bitter herbs. Perhaps he’ll grate some fresh ginger too, just for a little extra spice. This is for Oswald, after all. It needs to be just right.</p><p>Once he’s spooned in the honey and adorned the rim of each cup with a slice of lemon, he’s satisfied that it’s suitable for Oswald’s tastes. Ed carries the two teacups to him on a tray, along with a small vase of chamomile flowers he’d found on the dining table, and it earns him a delighted response.</p><p>“Oh, Ed,” Oswald gasps, positively radiant, “How wonderful!”</p><p>Ignoring the little tickle in his stomach, Ed sits beside Oswald and considers stealing half of the blanket that’s draped over his lap. He decides to let him keep it and settles for just tucking himself as close to him as possible without being too forward.</p><p>They share a glance, one that makes something within Ed flutter again, before each buries his nose in his teacup. It tastes just as Ed’s always preferred, just as Oswald made that first night, with the slight sting of ginger and lemon on his tongue smoothed over with silky honey.</p><p>Oswald seems pleased too, barely even giving the tea a chance to cool and humming happily at each enticing sip. And suddenly Ed finds himself caught off guard, his own tea forgotten, the cup and saucer held loosely in his lap. Oswald looks beautiful like this: wrapped in his brocade robe, hair fluffy, with the morning light glowing gold on his skin and catching on his soft, natural eyelashes. He’s always been stunning, makeup or no makeup, but in this moment Ed is particularly struck by how lovely he is in his bare-faced simplicity. Oswald’s eyes drift to him over the rim of his teacup, and he watches Ed for a moment, puzzled. <em>Oh.</em> Ed averts his gaze less than surreptitiously. He’s been staring too long. His body feels far warmer than the tea heating his hands.</p><p>“How is it?” he asks, in hopes of distracting Oswald.</p><p>But Oswald casts him such a gentle, stunning smile that <em>Ed</em> is the one left distracted yet again. “It’s perfect,” he murmurs. His eyes never leave Ed’s.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>There’s a pesky thing Oswald’s noticed about being shot. Apart from the most obvious side effects, like the hole in his stomach and the limited diet, he’s found out (the hard way) that the subtlest movement makes him feel like someone is tearing him in half. So when Oswald very cautiously braces himself against the edge of the clawfoot tub and tries to haul himself upright, he’s unreasonably surprised when a sudden, violent pain paralyzes him and he slips back into the water with a splash. But then he’s rightfully shocked when there’s a hurried thumping followed by Ed bursting through the door, his tie flying and his eyes wide.<p>“You’re okay,” Ed says breathlessly, as if he was imagining he’d find Oswald floating face-down in the bathtub.</p><p>“I just slipped is all,” Oswald mutters, crossing his arms over his body, although it does little to shield him from view. Not even a single soap bubble remains either- nothing to scoop up and cover himself with.</p><p>“Here,” Ed reaches his arms out for Oswald as he crosses over to the side of the tub, very pointedly keeping his eyes locked above Oswald’s shoulders.</p><p>“Ed…”</p><p>“I’ll close my eyes, okay?” Ed leans down and, tie dangling, locks his arms around Oswald’s middle, his hands slipping under the water to clasp at his back. He’s incredibly warm, even after Oswald has soaked in piping hot water, and the comforting, spicy scent lingering at his neck (perhaps cinnamon) nearly puts Oswald into a stupor as he struggles not to inhale too deeply.</p><p>And then Oswald makes the grave mistake of glancing up at Ed, who’s screwed his eyes shut and crinkled his nose rather sweetly, as though all of his willpower is focused on preserving Oswald’s privacy. There’s that all too familiar pang in his heart and, god, he’d thought he was <em>over this.</em> If he’s not careful, Oswald feels he could just melt into these strong arms as he’s lifted gently and effortlessly to his feet and helped out of the tub. Instead, he drags his eyes away, presses his palms to Ed’s shoulders to signal that he can let go, and swiftly pulls his robe on and wraps it tightly up to his chin.</p><p>“Alright,” he announces, and Ed hesitantly opens his eyes.</p><p>“All set?”</p><p>Oswald’s answer dies on his lips like a whisper when his gaze freezes on Ed’s soaked dress shirt. It clings to his skin quite alluringly and stretches across his broad chest so that any slight flex of the firm, lean muscle underneath is visible. <em>God,</em> how those buttons seem to strain. If Oswald could just reach out, brush his fingertips across that wide expanse-</p><p>“Ed,” he squeaks, shaking it off, “I’m sorry…”</p><p>“Oh,” Ed laughs softly, smoothing his hands over his damp, wrinkled clothing in a move that <em>shouldn’t</em> make Oswald blush furiously, but does. “It’s just a little water, Os.”</p><p>Except it’s not <em>‘just a little,’</em> it’s like the heavens opened up and rained exclusively on Ed’s torso, simply to torture Oswald. “Thank you” is all he manages to choke out as he (with some difficulty) rips his eyes away from the spectacle.</p><p>“Of course. I’ll be right next door, okay? I’ll get your painkillers ready in the meantime.”</p><p>Oswald offers a nod and a dazed smile just as Ed’s warm face disappears behind the door. There’s the click of the latch and Oswald feels he can finally breathe again.</p><p>He just can’t wrap his head around this man. After weeks of going behind Oswald’s back, of playing the saboteur and seemingly <em>praying</em> for Richard to be revealed the villain, Ed’s suddenly made it his personal mission to be wonderful. To be the perfect caretaker. And here Oswald is, foolish as ever, gushing over Ed the second he’s finally acting decent again.</p><p>The only other time Ed’s gone out of his way to be good to Oswald was before Richard, and even before Isabelle. When no one stood between them. The second Richard entered their lives, Ed’s day-to-day mood took a nosedive and his willingness for compassion seemed to as well. If Oswald was a little more naïve, he might attribute it to <em>jealousy,</em> pure and simple.</p><p>Still, the questions swirl in his mind all day, bitterness and hope and doubt twisting together in a puzzling fusion. Oswald’s done this many times before: this dangerous back-and-forth game. Does Ed love him? No. He has Isabelle, and he always describes her as his second chance at love. But Ed seemed to hate seeing Oswald and Richard together. What else could it be, other than envy? He remembers the suspicious blonde woman from the Founder’s Dinner party, the one with no name and an odd glint in her eye, and he remembers what she told him: <em>Beware the green-eyed monster.</em></p><p>He freezes, letting his book drop into his lap. That woman. How could he have forgotten her again? So much has happened, his head constantly swimming with worries, the overwhelming pressure of it all closing in on him. But Ed should know about her. She <em>must</em> have something to do with this.</p><p>Remembering Ed’s advice, he presses a pillow to his stomach and pushes himself upright with a wince, abandoning his book on the sofa as he staggers off in a hurry to find the man. He’s a tad surprised when Ed doesn’t whirl around at the sound of his uneven footfalls like usual- in fact, Ed’s hovering by the parlor window, his eyes shifting relentlessly as he peers out from behind the closed curtains. It’s a kind of skittishness Oswald isn’t used to.</p><p>“Ed?”</p><p>He yanks the curtains fully shut.</p><p>“Are you… okay?”</p><p>He throws on that wide, empty smile again. “Peachy keen.”</p><p>Before Oswald can process Ed’s bizarre behavior, he’s being led from the room, a gentle hand pressing at his back. “Wait, Ed-”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“I really need to- there’s something-” Nodding vaguely and clearly not listening, Ed has Oswald stumbling all the way back to the living room, where he gestures for him to sit down close to the fire. Ed’s just begun tucking a blanket around Oswald for what feels like the billionth time this week when Oswald snatches his hands and holds them firmly.</p><p>That certainly got his attention.</p><p>“Os…” he breathes, eyes wide and wondering. He’s so close, Oswald must be blushing just as much as he is.</p><p>But there’s a pressing matter at hand, even more so than the weight and warmth of Ed’s palms in his own. He takes a deep breath. “Ed, I’ve remembered something.”</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>As expected, Ed never noticed the mysterious woman at the Founder’s Dinner that fateful night, but he’s seemingly eager to take on the daunting task of researching Gotham’s history to find something. Almost instantly after Oswald relayed his experience, Ed dashed off to the manor’s modestly-stocked library in search of answers, and he’s been holed up there for the night and half the day.<p>Upon Ed’s complaint that he’s found absolutely nothing, Oswald tiredly suggested he try the city library and its much more expansive collection of historical works, but even mentioning it seemed to tense Ed’s shoulders. All he said, though, was that he’d rather not go out in the pouring rain. Oswald doesn’t understand but he doesn’t argue. He’s sunken too deep into his melancholy to give anything other than his pessimism much thought. Maybe it’s the weather, like his mother always said. Or maybe it’s the fact that someone made an attempt on his life, or that he lost his boyfriend, or that he can feel his hold on this city slipping between his fingers like sand.</p><p>Finally crawling out of bed at near noon, Oswald decides he’ll prepare his own tea. He’s surely burdened Ed enough up until now, and perhaps one less chore will give Ed a chance to pay a visit to his own home, to Isabelle. Not that Oswald likes the idea. But trapping Ed here at the manor won’t help his case either. It certainly won’t make Ed love him.</p><p>Ed will <em>never</em> love him.</p><p>It’s not a new revelation, no, but the thought strikes him differently now. No matter what he does, no matter how sweetly he smiles or how much makeup he puts on, Ed will never see him as anything more than a friend. He’ll go on living with Isabelle, and one day Oswald will have to pin a rose to Ed’s wedding suit and pretend his tears are joyous.</p><p>And Richard… he’s gone, never to return. A man actually, <em>finally</em> loves him, but Oswald was too stubborn to just let go of Ed and give his heart to the one who wanted it so badly.</p><p>He lifts the screaming kettle off the burner and shakily tips it, pouring steaming water into the little teacup. He pointedly ignores the newspaper strewn across the counter, the one declaring <em>Mayor In Critical Condition: The Fall of a Kingpin?</em></p><p>Here he is, with no one waiting for him, no one to hold him and love him like no other. Here he is with a crumbling reputation and a bullet wound to his gut and a heart split down the middle.</p><p>The water spills over. Here he is, utterly alone.</p><p>“Oswald, I would have gotten that for you.”</p><p>He hadn’t noticed Ed coming into the kitchen.</p><p>“Oswald?”</p><p>He lowers the teapot back onto the stove with a carefully delicate clink. His throat feels choked with barbed wire. He can’t move. A tear drops into his teacup and he watches absently as the ripples fade.</p><p>“Os?”</p><p>The first sob that cuts through him is startling. He jolts and braces himself against the counter, taking ragged breaths, but there’s no holding it back now. All he can do is sink to the floor, tuck himself into the corner of the cabinets, and let his grief shudder through him.</p><p>It was a long time coming.</p><p>There are hands on him, warm hands which treat him with such gentle care and devotion as they would a piece of breakable china. Ed lowers himself beside him and Oswald reaches, his fingers tangling in the soft cashmere of his sweater, his tears soaking through the thick fabric as he presses his cheek to Ed’s chest.</p><p>“<em>Oswald,</em>” he soothes, the sound a calming vibration against Oswald’s body. It only makes him cry harder. “Oswald, dearest,” he whispers against him, breath hot on his temple, “<em>Breathe.</em>”</p><p>For Ed, he tries. Struggles to suck in a few unsteady breaths. His exhales make his chest tremble but Ed gives him hushed words of encouragement. <em>That’s good, Oswald. Keep breathing. I’ve got you.</em></p><p>Ed holds him long after his crying slows. Somehow, even curled up on the cold kitchen tiles with a throbbing headache and puffy eyes, Oswald has never felt safer.</p><div class="center">
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</div>This is not the first time Ed’s witnessed Oswald fall apart. He remembers a night, back in his dusty old apartment, when Oswald wept for hours over the death of his mother. And then there were many times after that, when Oswald would stress over his mayoral campaign, when he would gaze at the portrait of his beloved father, or just recently when Ed- <em>when Ed broke his heart.</em> But this <em>is</em> the first time Oswald’s nearly fallen asleep in his arms. An intimacy like that, Ed’s never dreamed of. He surprised even himself with his bedside manner- but it’s Oswald, and Ed would go to the ends of the earth if it would earn even a tiny smile from him. Especially now, after everything Ed’s done, and after everything Oswald’s suffered through.<p>So when Oswald had stopped sniffling and his breaths came in even puffs of air, Ed helped him to his feet and calmly led him upstairs, his hands latched onto him the entire time. The exhaustion seemed to weigh so heavily on Oswald that he simply fell into bed and was out like a light. Ed pulled the comforter over him and let him sleep dreamlessly.</p><p>That was yesterday.</p><p>Today, Ed had to practically pester Oswald with reminders that daily movement is crucial in healing serious wounds until he finally dragged himself out of bed. Oswald didn’t say a word, just slipped on his robe and followed Ed.</p><p>Then, before he retreated to his usual corner to carry on with his tedious research, Ed made sure to get Oswald settled and comfortable on the couch with what was perhaps an overwhelming amount of blankets and pillows. Oswald was still oddly quiet, curled in on himself, although the past few days that he’s been under Ed’s care, he’s tended to swing between tired docility and quiet frustration. He even refused the prospect of tea, much to Ed’s surprise. Maybe some peace and solitude will do him good.</p><p>Ed sighs at the stack of books which he’d pulled from the shelves of the manor’s library, none of which offered anything of use: no mention of any aristocratic blonde women or this Court of Owls which Richard has been searching for. The clock is tick, tick, ticking away and he feels there’s nothing he can do to stop it. But he needs to try. Oswald is counting on him.</p><p>He drops the last book on the desk before him, a thick, leather-bound one trimmed with gold that reads, “The Untold History of Gotham City”. He could waste time scoffing at the title (if it really was the “untold” history, there wouldn’t be an entire book written on the topic), but instead he dives right in, fingers carefully carding through the amber-stained pages. Having been studying these books for hours, the words and photographs blur and Ed has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep them from glazing over. God, he wants to sleep.</p><p>He looks down at the page he paused on. A discussion of Gotham’s deep roots. A photograph of well-dressed, clearly upscale people standing before a grand, roaring fireplace rests in the center. He squints. There, among the row of faded, grim faces is that of a stern-looking woman, perhaps in her forties, with her blonde hair twisted into a prim updo. In her hands is a sinister, feathered mask. An owl.</p><p>The only caption underneath the photograph simply reads, “The masterminds of this great city.” Not a single name to attach to anyone in this mysterious group. Except… there’s one person there whom Ed recognizes beyond a doubt, and his chest tightens at the sight of him.</p><p>Even at several decades younger, Hugo Strange is still entirely distinguishable in his dusty brown pinstripe suit and crisp lab coat. His eyes are hidden behind the glare on his round spectacles. An ominous intention disguised with the friendly face of a psychiatrist. Ed swallows his nausea.</p><p>If the woman in this photograph is the same one who’s been hiding her threats to Oswald behind a thin veil, and she has ties to Strange, Ed can only guess what kind of horrors she has planned. Just thinking of the torture he endured—the torture <em>Oswald</em> endured—makes his blood run cold. But he needs to be certain of this before he lets his panic spiral out of control, so he gathers up the book and races off to the living room where he knows his friend is still resting.</p><p>“Oswald? I’m not sure if what I have is <em>solid,</em> but I think you need to see for yourself. There’s this woman-” he cuts himself off when he realizes Oswald hasn’t turned from his nest on the sofa. “Oswald, did you hear me?”</p><p>Oswald’s shoulders heave with a sigh and he shifts around and sits up. He doesn’t look at Ed but his eyes are glassy with tears and blazing with something restrained.</p><p>Ed tightens his grip on the book. “You’re upset,” he comments, matter-of-fact, and the instant the idiotic words slip from his mouth, he wants to slap himself. <em>Oh, really, Ed? He’s upset? An astute observation, really something-</em></p><p>Oswald finally looks at him sharply. “Why did it take me getting shot for you to quit being such an ass?”</p><p>Uh oh.</p><p>He really doesn’t understand why this is coming up all of a sudden (and perhaps he’d hoped Oswald would have forgotten his misconduct). Sure, Oswald’s been stoic since yesterday morning when he broke down on the kitchen floor, but this… this is different. There’s a sting of anger in his words, in his eyes. Possible responses flood Ed’s mind, some self-deprecating, some that might get him off the hook, some that play dumb. Yet… he draws a blank.</p><p>“Do you even <em>care</em> how badly you hurt me? Or are you just happy that Richard is finally gone?!”</p><p>“I…”</p><p>Oswald is on a roll and Ed is cornered. “Right from the start, you couldn’t even <em>pretend</em> to be happy for me!”</p><p>That is true. Ed was never happy. But why couldn’t he just <em>fake</em> it, if only to save himself from Oswald’s piercing voice? <em>Perhaps part of him wanted Oswald to notice.</em></p><p>“The one time I find someone who <em>loves</em> me, who wants to <em>be</em> with me, you’re suddenly so goddamn miserable that you actually <em>go out of your way</em> to find a way to separate us!” Oswald shifts restlessly and throws off his blankets. “It’s like you <em>wanted</em> me to be unhappy!”</p><p>Ed sags. “Oswald, you’re my best friend.”</p><p>“Then why didn’t you treat me like one?”</p><p>Ed doesn’t like this, doesn’t like being put on the spot.</p><p>“<em>Why,</em> Edward?” he demands again. “You were cruel to me, you treated Richard like he was nothing more than a speck of dirt on your shoe-”</p><p>“<em>I don’t know,</em> Oswald!” Ed finds himself snapping, and Oswald blinks in surprise but remains silent, waiting as Ed teeters on the edge of this precipice. “What do you want me to say?! That I hated him? That I hated <em>seeing</em> you with him? Fine, I admit it!” Ed thrusts his arms out to his sides, rushing blood making his limbs run hot. “I hated his <em>guts.</em> And every second of every day that I had to watch him put his hands on you, and hold you, and kiss you, the whole time wishing you were with-”</p><p>He chokes down the words, chokes on the searing dryness in his throat. He didn’t mean to say that- <em>start</em> to say that. Oswald has gone completely still, eyes wide and round as moons. Ed dips his head just as Oswald’s face seems to slacken, to soften. <em>He knows. He knows, and Ed never meant to let anything slip, because Ed doesn’t even know himself.</em></p><p>So he does the easiest thing he can do with Oswald’s eyes carefully watching him: he turns away. “I’m sorry, Oswald,” he croaks, his voice wet and shivering as he struggles to hold back tears. “I really am, I mean, you-” he sucks in a shaky breath, runs a hand through his hair, anything to stop himself from trembling, “you deserve better than me. I’ve been a terrible friend.” It <em>hurts</em> to say it, the words carving up his insides as he forces them out, but he’s not saying anything untrue.</p><p>He is unworthy, and this is the part where Oswald tells him so, where Oswald cuts him out of his life for the final time. Ed knows he’s not good with words, never has been, and he knows nothing he says could possibly convince Oswald to stay with him. After everything, it’s a fate Ed deserves. So he braces himself for impact, and…</p><p>Oswald’s blankets rustle and the sofa springs creak. “Not a <em>terrible</em> friend,” he finally mutters. </p><p>Ed waits, breath held, but Oswald doesn’t offer another reassurance, as though he’s perfectly unaware that Ed desperately needs it like air. Ed hates to beg, hates to be weak, but at this point he’s at the end of his rope, and if he doesn’t plead now, that last sliver of hope will fade and Oswald will be lost to him. “I don’t want to lose you, Oswald,” he says, quiet and careful, “I can’t.”</p><p>“You’re not going to lose me,” Oswald murmurs, and his words are so soft that Ed feels the earth beneath him crumbling. Something indescribable floods through him, something warm and comforting that makes him just want to fall into Oswald’s arms. But… they’re not quite there yet. Ed turns to face him again and almost shyly studies his features, searching for any sign of resentment or annoyance. All he sees is <em>gentleness.</em></p><p>Oswald sighs and picks at a loose thread on his blanket. “Ed… as <em>deceitful</em> as your methods were, I should have trusted you, I suppose. You were only looking out for me, in your own way. Like you’ve always done.”</p><p>Ed shakes his head slightly. What is he saying? “You…”</p><p>“So I’m sorry too, Ed. For ignoring your concerns.”</p><p>Ice cold guilt surges through his heart. “You don’t need to-”</p><p>“You can’t be too careful in this line of work,” Oswald reminds, shifting to face him fully, “and while I wish you had been more… <em>delicate</em> about the situation, it was logical of you to assume that things usually aren’t as simple as they seem.”</p><p>Ed furrows his brow. Only a minute ago, Oswald was tearing him apart, how can he find reason in Ed’s shameful behavior? How can he even look at him and not see all the things Ed’s destroyed, his ruined life laid before him?</p><p>“Ed, these past few days, you’ve shown me who you really are-”</p><p>Ed twists his mouth bitterly. “A selfish, heartless-” </p><p>“<em>The very same man</em> who saved my life and spent hours a day tending to me, the man I’m lucky to call my best friend. Ed, don’t you see? You’re always taking care of me. I realize that now.”</p><p>There’s no ignoring how his heart aches at those words. “I don’t understand, Oswald,” he counters, voice sharp and shaky, “I don’t know how you can just-”</p><p>“Oh, Ed,” he says, his tone tipping towards fondness, “There’s more to us than this fight. And… I don’t think I could let you go even if I wanted to.”</p><p>The ache becomes a flutter, faint but impossible to ignore.</p><p>“I think… perhaps… you are the <em>only</em> person who truly understands me. Who <em>knows</em> me,” Oswald continues softly.</p><p>“But he said he loves you,” Ed mumbles at his shoes, feeling childish.</p><p>“Yes, but in the end, maybe he wasn’t really meant for me,” Oswald’s eyes flicker up to meet Ed’s, and there’s something unspoken in his gaze. He reaches out and grasps Ed’s hand, giving it a little squeeze as he casts a gentle, glowing smile up at him. And Ed notices, <em>definitely</em> not for the first time, that it gives him butterflies, and that it warms him all over with a kind of contentment he can’t quite describe. He squeezes back.</p><div class="center">
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</div>When he dreams, he dreams of Ed. Oswald is held, caressed, and kissed, and Ed gazes at him with such devotion and adoration he feels he’s going to melt in it. This time, the ring on his finger is big and flashy and just what he’s always hoped for: a decadent purple gem lined with little sparkling emeralds. He looks at it and he feels like half of a whole. And when he opens his eyes, that warm fuzziness in his core seems to linger. It leaves him craving <em>more.</em><p>Some lovely music floats to him from downstairs, beckoning him. Slipping on his robe, he heads for the stairs and clings to the railing as he descends quickly, hoping not to miss the end of Ed’s song. But he reaches the source of the wonderful sound and it continues on, and there Ed is, bathed in the warm gold of the rising sun, his hands gliding across the keys like water. What a vision to behold.</p><p>Only, Oswald is caught off guard when the dreamy music pauses and he realizes that, all the way from across the room, Ed has found his eyes.</p><p>“Os,” a gentle smile spreads across his lips and he pats the piano bench, “come sit.”</p><p>Oswald hobbles over without hesitation, but he doesn’t sit as close beside Ed as he’d like to. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play,” he says, glowing.</p><p>“I’ve missed it,” Ed replies, continuing his melody. His eyes seem to glaze over as though some memory is replaying in his mind. Perhaps he thinks of what Oswald remembers: a shadowed apartment, green lights shifting across the hardwood floors, a quiet lullaby sung in the softest voice, a broken man huddled under the covers.</p><p>Oswald blinks back tears while Ed hides his smile. <em>I miss it too, Ed. I miss us.</em></p><p>Ed’s hands slow, then still, and he shifts to face Oswald. “My loss brings you pain, yet my absence entirely feels the same,” he begins, his words far softer than usual for a riddle, “I can be difficult to accept, yet you cannot ignore me. To one I am nothing, to two I am everything. What am I?”</p><p>Oswald exhales a laugh. “Ed, you know riddles aren’t my forte,” he responds quietly, his fingertips nervously tapping the keys. He hasn’t a clue what the answer is but something about this—perhaps Ed’s profoundly fond gaze or his hand resting so close to Oswald’s own—makes him blush.</p><p>There’s a heated silence before Ed drops his eyes to the piano keys. His smile is tender, content, although seemingly <em>restrained,</em> like there’s something more he wants to say, or do. “Shall we finish the song?”</p><p>Perhaps, after some time, Ed will tell Oswald the answer to his riddle. But for now, tucked close together on the bench, their hands move in rhythm across the piano, playing a beautiful melody. Ed teasingly reaches across Oswald’s space to tap out the high notes and consequently block Oswald’s view. Laughing like he hasn’t in a long time, Oswald throws up a hand to try to cover Ed’s eyes. His revenge proves victorious, as Ed squawks and hits several wrong keys, giggling all the while.</p><p>Oswald wonders now if his love for Ed ever really crumbled, or if this is its awakening. As he falls back into that familiar domesticity of steaming teacups and quiet moments by the fire, he’s reminded why he fell for this man in the first place. And shockingly, all he feels in this moment is <em>relief.</em> He doesn’t think of the wound in his stomach, or Richard, or Isabella- only of Ed’s infectious laughter, his hands dancing across the piano keys, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he looks at him.</p><p>And Oswald is sure now: he is the one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ed and Oswald find themselves in deeper waters than they'd expected.</p><p>[Please notice the tags/warnings have changed. That being said, I promise this story will have a happy ending.]</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A pair of eyes on a page. That’s all they are, yet Oswald’s skin is crawling with dread just looking at them. Even having met her only once, he would recognize those cold, piercing eyes and that wicked face in a heartbeat. It’s her, without a doubt.</p><p>His gaze slides along the line of people and holds on Hugo Strange, who appears exactly as he did in Arkham, when he watched from the other side of the glass panel as Oswald was strapped to a chair and tortured. Staring at that glass was like staring into dark, murky water… There was Oswald’s own reflection, screaming and writhing, but concealed behind that was something faint yet much more sinister: an amused and fascinated expression just barely hidden behind spectacles. A shark anticipating his next meal.</p><p>The thought of it makes Oswald ill, even to this day.</p><p>He steps away from the book laid out on the desk and bites down on his fingernails for a moment. “Ed,” he begins slowly, not sure how to articulate the whirlwind of thoughts surging in his mind, “this is… incredibly dangerous.” An understatement, perhaps.</p><p>Ed stops his pacing and lets his arms fall to his sides. “I know,” he says, almost delicately.</p><p>“But whoever she is—and wherever she is—she has the answers to everything. I’m certain of that. I mean, ‘masterminds of this great city’?”</p><p>“She’s definitely a big fish. But if we can’t find her,” Ed pauses as though briefly reconsidering, “we’ll have to find Strange.”</p><p>Oswald furrows his brow. “And do what? Ask him, <em>‘Professor, what sort of dastardly deeds are you up to these days?’”</em></p><p>The muscles in Ed’s jaw tense. “We don’t have a whole lot of options, Oswald,” he says tiredly.</p><p>“There’s no way we’ll be able to track her down,” Oswald mutters, defeated, “She’s made that pretty clear.”</p><p>“<em>Hence,</em>” Ed gestures aimlessly. Right. No options.</p><p>With a deep sigh, Oswald all but falls back onto the couch and sinks into the cushions. “I doubt Strange has retired from terrorizing Arkham inmates, so he won’t be difficult to find. But,” he taps a finger on the arm of the sofa, “he might be difficult to get to. <em>Especially</em> if he has something to hide.”</p><p>“It’s a safe bet.”</p><p>“So <em>how</em> do we get to him?”</p><p>Ed chews on his cheek for a moment. “Pose as psychiatrists and infiltrate the asylum?”</p><p>Oswald blinks. The two of them are far, far too notorious to successfully pass themselves off as doctors (especially when both of them vacationed in Arkham’s gray and white stripes). Their names aren’t just on record, they’re <em>painted on the goddamn walls.</em></p><p>Ed scans Oswald’s confused face. “Pose as inmates?” he offers, eyebrows raised.</p><p>Oswald waves a dismissive hand. “I think we need to try something more… covert, less hiding in plain sight. We can’t take that kind of risk.”</p><p>“I suppose you’re right,” Ed pauses, “You didn’t happen to make any friends while you were in Arkham, did you? Someone who could help us from the inside?”</p><p>Oswald’s scoff is answer enough for Ed.</p><p>“Right-o,” he takes a deep breath that heaves his shoulders, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep brainstorming. But sooner or later- um,” Ed shakes his head as though shaking off the thought, yet Oswald knows. Time is running out.</p><p>Oswald stretches his legs out on the couch and lies back against the pillows, all the while pressing his fingertips into his tired eyes. He wishes the only thing he had to worry about was which tie to wear or what to eat for breakfast or whether or not Ed is so painfully in love with him, too.</p><p>“I’ll keep looking for anything that will help us,” Ed says from somewhere in the room, probably his desk.</p><p>Oswald nods wordlessly and lets the quiet crinkle of book pages and the rhythmic ticking of the clock lull him to rest.</p><div class="center">
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</div>The room is far darker when Oswald opens his eyes again. Like all light has been sucked from the world. Could he really have slept from morning until midnight? He sits up carefully, minding his tender stomach, and twists around to read the time on the clock. It ticks slow and heavy, the sound throbbing in his ears, but… the hands are missing.<p>And there’s something else missing- or rather, some<em>one</em>. Ed isn’t at his desk, or anywhere. Hm. Oswald doesn’t feel alone. His arms prickle with goosebumps.</p><p>A tall and narrow shadow slides along the wall, nearing the end of the hallway. Fear freezes Oswald’s body and he’s completely and utterly defenseless. When he opens his mouth, tries to call Ed’s name, tries to force any sound out, there’s… nothing. Absolutely nothing.</p><p>And that’s not Ed rounding the corner. Even with her prim, shriveled face hidden under a ghastly, feathered mask, Oswald knows- it’s <em>her.</em> Her thin, red mouth curls into a smile, and she looms closer, her movements quick and distorted. Her beaked mask glints behind the shroud of darkness.</p><p>Oswald is her prey.</p><p>She’s too close now, far too close and Oswald. can’t. move. Paralyzed with fear, heart pounding painfully. There is nothing behind her mask, only gaping holes where her eyes should be. Her bony hand reaches.</p><p>Oswald wakes with the ghost of a scream still aching in his throat.</p><p>The first thing he registers through the muddled cloudiness in his mind is the firmness of the sofa cushions beneath his back. <em>He’s home.</em> A knitted blanket has been tucked under his chin, certainly not something he did before falling asleep. That’s when he notices another thing: Ed, seated in the armchair just on the other side of the coffee table, carding through the pages of a large, gold trimmed book, the same one he’d shown Oswald earlier. He’s so absorbed in his reading that he doesn’t even look up when Oswald stirs. It’s a comfort just to have him there, at least.</p><p>Oswald stretches the numbness from his limbs, feels his chest shudder with anxiety as he arches his back. This wasn’t like any other nightmare where he can open his eyes and the fear simply melts away as the morning sun washes over his face. <em>She</em> follows him into the waking world- Oswald knows she waits for him somewhere. But he glances up at the doorway where she had lurked and… it’s empty. Brightly lit with sunshine.</p><p>Ed finally lifts his nose from his book and watches him diligently, a hint of concern just barely hidden behind his stoic mask.</p><p>“What time is it?” Oswald asks wearily, his head spinning as he pushes himself upright.</p><p>Ed nudges his glasses up and checks the clock perched on the mantle. “Close to noon. You needed the sleep.”</p><p>Drowsiness presses behind Oswald’s eyes. He yawns deeply, but the fuzziness in his head lingers. Napping during the day has never been good for him.</p><p>Ed marks his place in his book and sets it on the table beside him. “How are you feeling, Os? I can get you some tea, if you’d like? Or are you hungry?”</p><p>“I’m a bit peckish, I suppose. But I could stand to stretch my legs,” he replies, carefully swiveling to place his feet on the floor. Ed’s eyes never leave him, as though scrutinizing his every movement, watching and waiting for something to go wrong.</p><p>Of course—and all at once—the blood surges to his head, his vision blackening as he rises, and he feels his wound scream with the stretch of his muscles. He sways, throws out a hand and steadies himself against the arm of the couch.</p><p>Ed is there in the blink of an eye, pressing a pain pill into Oswald’s palm and his own glass of water into the other hand. “Easy, Os,” he murmurs. A hand presses to Oswald’s back, warming him right through his pajama shirt. He nearly chokes on the pill as he swallows it.</p><p>“I’m okay.”</p><p>“Mm-hm. Come on.”</p><p>Despite his intention to get a little blood flow in his legs, Oswald finds himself being seated yet again at the kitchen counter as Ed rummages about for eggs, bread, and berries. Watching him, Oswald can’t help but think that Ed <em>likes</em> this, likes doting on him. How a… <em>husband</em> would. The thought makes him blush deeply.</p><p>“How does french toast sound?” Ed picks a handful of strawberries out of the container and drops them into a colander. “I know it’s a little close to lunch time, but you really can’t go wrong with Ed Nygma’s famous recipe.”</p><p>Oswald hides his pink face in the palm of his hand. “That sounds wonderful, my darling-”</p><p>The colander that had been in Ed’s hands clatters onto the floor, spilling strawberries across the tiles, the sound jarring and painfully loud.</p><p>And just like that, Oswald’s flush turns from a soft, glowing rosiness to a burning, humiliated scarlet. What has he done? He had been so <em>sure</em> his feelings were finally reciprocated after Ed admitted (rather vehemently) that the very sight of Oswald and Richard together made him fume. It was hard to deny the obvious streak of jealousy in that confession. Not only that, Ed’s been fussing over him nonstop, casting him heart-melting gazes, and telling him riddles that leave him feeling strangely warm. They’d been blushing at each other over the piano only yesterday! But now, it seems Oswald was wrong. <em>Again.</em></p><p>“I- I apologize,” he chokes, already feeling tears welling up. He dares to glance up at Ed, who is momentarily frozen, lips parted, as though he’s weighing his possible responses. Every passing second is pure agony until Ed eventually speaks.</p><p>“No, no, Os, it’s okay,” he says, expression perfectly still and completely unreadable. <em>Like he’s holding something back.</em> He crouches and gathers up the fallen strawberries in silence, Oswald hanging on the edge of a cliff, dreading the moment Ed looks upon his pitiful self again.</p><p>So Oswald simply drops his head and stares into his lap, his eyes stinging and his face terribly hot. The refilled colander is placed on the counter with a gentle tap. There’s shuffling, and then from the corner of his vision Oswald can make out Ed’s shirt buttons and the tiny diamond pattern on his green tie as Ed kneels beside him.</p><p>“Hey,” he takes Oswald’s hand in both of his, “it’s <em>okay.</em>” With a dashingly handsome smile, he reaches up and gently nudges Oswald’s cheek with his knuckles. “Now how about that french toast, huh? Maybe you’ll feel a little better.”</p><p>Oswald has to physically restrain himself from smashing their lips together.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>It’s been three and a half hours since the incident (not that Oswald’s been paying attention) and Ed has been constantly pacing the halls of the manor, his footsteps hesitant, almost shy. Few words are exchanged between the two of them, only something quick like, “Should I warm that tea up for you?” or, “Another blanket, perhaps?” Ed is clearly embarrassed, pink to his ears, and for some reason, it makes Oswald feel a little less so himself. They just need some time, perhaps in solitude, and then everything will be back to normal. They will go back to being just friends, like Ed wants.<p>Eventually, Ed takes a break from padding to and from the living room doorway to take a shower. He gives Oswald one last uncertain glance, then closes the curtains before he goes. Oswald hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until a heavy sigh escapes him.</p><p>With the sound of the water pipes shuddering overhead, Oswald settles against the arm of the couch and enjoys his book. It’s a nice break from the doom and gloom, and he’s otherwise completely helpless- they have yet to devise a solid plan to accost Strange and persuade him to cooperate. This is a delicate situation: the longer they sit on their hands, the more danger they’re in, yet Oswald knows Ed is reluctant to act too fast- confronting Strange when Oswald is still so vulnerable may be even more dangerous.</p><p>Sighing, Oswald flips the page of his book and stares intently at the words, trying to drown out those thoughts. He’s supposed to be <em>relaxing.</em> It’ll take him ages longer to heal if he keeps letting his nerves get the best of him- or at least, that’s what Ed seems to think.</p><p>And Ed knows best.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>There’s very little Ed doesn’t know about Oswald. After being close friends with the man for over two years, Ed is rather confident that there’s not a soul on Earth who knows Oswald better than he does. <em>Richard certainly didn’t have a clue.</em> Only Ed has memorized every little detail about him. The way he always enjoys a hot bubble bath after a stressful day. Which ties he likes to pair with which suits. How he prefers his tea served.<p>His use of pet names.</p><p>Oswald tends to pepper a few “my dears” into any conversation—and occasionally, “darling”—and he’s a master at twisting those simple words to reflect everything he intends. Ed’s catalogued every little inflection in Oswald’s voice, every mannerism, every subtle raise of his eyebrows. He understands how “my dear” accompanied by batted eyelashes denotes antagonism, and how the very same phrase is far sweeter and more cordial when Oswald tilts his head and speaks softly. “Darling,” on the other hand, is most often spit out like an insult.</p><p>But this… this was different.</p><p><em>My darling.</em> The very thought of Oswald saying it to him warms him all over. Oswald had looked so incredibly tender when the words fell from his perfect lips, with his chin in his hand, his eyes dreamy, and with the most beautiful blush Ed had ever seen- it took all of his willpower not to stare. To think, Ed Nygma somehow made <em>Oswald Cobblepot</em> glow pink just for him. He-</p><p>No. He’s definitely overthinking this. Oswald uses pet names all the time, it’s as simple as that. Ed is not special. Still, the gentle way Oswald looks at him when he sits beside him on the sofa makes him wonder. His mood definitely seems to have brightened since this morning when Ed—like an <em>idiot</em>—dropped the strawberries instead of simply glowing at him like the lovesick fool he is. If only Oswald knew how much he’d love to be called “my darling.”</p><p>When he feels he’s been staring too long (Oswald’s unblinking eyes are on him) Ed looks down, and then up, swallowing roughly around the dryness in his throat. “Feeling alright?” Their knees are almost touching. He shifts closer imperceptibly.</p><p>Oswald nods, quiet as he studies him. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>A smile slides across Oswald’s lips, easy and sweet, as though he hasn’t the slightest idea of how it makes Ed feel. “For taking care of me.”</p><p>“I’ve had some practice haven’t I?”</p><p>Oswald dips his head, hiding another beautiful blush and <em>oh,</em> what Ed would give to get a better view of the rosiness that blooms across his nose. “Well, as much as I appreciate you doting on me, I don’t plan on getting hurt again,” he murmurs, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks.</p><p>“One more injury and I’ll put you on eternal bedrest,” Ed teases, a grin frozen on his lips.</p><p>“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Oswald replies with a hesitant smile. When he glances up again, something washes over his eyes, like a passing shadow over sparkling waters. And then he leans in, and Ed’s heart leaps to his throat, and there’s the gentlest press of lips to Ed’s cheek. From his touch alone, even as faint and feather-light as it is, Ed’s skin burns hot.</p><p>Perhaps Oswald has guessed the answer to his riddle.</p><p>Yet… on what earth could Oswald love Ed as much as Ed’s own heart aches for him? His hands shake when he wonders what place he could possibly have in his universe. How can he compete when Oswald is pulled away from him and into Richard’s orbit? Even with the man gone, Ed can sense Oswald’s longing. His desperate love. He probably thinks of him constantly. Ed is inferior in every way.</p><p>But Oswald is getting up to leave, time is running out, and Ed can’t let him get away again. His hand flies out and catches his wrist before he can stop himself. “Oswald, wait.” There’s no turning back. Not that Ed thinks he could, especially when Oswald’s hand is so soft in his own, the fine hairs like peach fuzz against his skin. He won’t let go. He rises as well, gently brings him closer like a dance.</p><p>And time freezes, Oswald along with it, his eyes wide and still as quiet ponds at midnight. Something quivers deep in Ed’s chest, a flutter that leaves him feeling both dizzy and grounded. As if the fear is only faint and fading already. He remembers a night, weeks ago, when he was far more uncertain.</p><p>
  <em>“I had dinner with Oswald.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re in love with him, aren’t you? You are, aren’t you?”</em>
</p><p>“I think Isabella was right,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. He’s certain now.</p><p>“About what?”</p><p>It makes perfect sense for Ed to finally do this. Really, he can’t think to do anything <em>other</em> than lean down and press his lips so softly to Oswald’s, breathing love and tenderness into him. Oswald gasps against him but Ed can feel how sweetly he returns the pressure. He breaks away achingly slow, a hand still cupping Oswald’s cheek. He wants to see him now.</p><p>“Ed,” he sighs, lashes fluttering as though he can hardly believe this. It’s a beautiful thing to make Oswald Cobblepot so dazed, so flustered. To redden his lips like this, to make stars sparkle in his eyes. </p><p>Perhaps it was all too easy for Ed to forget that he does in fact have a girlfriend. Oh, Isabella will be terribly upset to have her suspicions confirmed… </p><p>“Oh dear,” Ed mutters, coldness washing under his skin. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.” He can only imagine his girlfriend’s sharp-nailed wrath, her seething eyes, her tears. He swallows roughly, feeling the anxiety building. He’d gotten so distracted that he only just registers how the wonder slips from Oswald’s face, how his eyes dim and his lips set in a line. <em>No no no,</em> Ed wants to see him light up with joy again, to see his eyes drift closed in bliss as he kisses him and kisses him. So he adds, “But I- I don’t regret it at all.” </p><p>Oswald releases a little sigh of relief just as their lips meet again, as Ed winds his arms around his middle and holds him tight. Heartbeat stuttering, it takes Ed a moment to realize that this is <em>real,</em> there are lips pressing to his own and hands clinging to his shoulders, wrapping around him and clutching him. This isn’t just another indulgent fantasy which Ed tries so desperately to push down late at night, only to be seized by the same salacious thought when he dreams. Now, <em>finally,</em> he’s overwhelmed and in awe of everything before him. How Oswald is cushiony and soft and warm in his arms, not at all sharp and cold like his stony public image. The way Oswald’s freckled nose nudges against his own when he tilts his head. That subtle, sweet smell of cakey foundation on Oswald’s cheeks. How his eyelashes seem even longer when he’s right up against Ed.</p><p>He wonders just how long these feelings have lived within him, coursing through his veins as his lifeblood. The realization certainly wasn’t like being swept off his feet in that wine shop with Isabella; it didn’t crash into him like waves, carrying him away in their whirlwind embrace. No, this was subtle, barely there until it was <em>all</em> that was there, all he could think about. Creeping up on him until it was too late. But he’s more than happy to succumb to this.</p><p>Ed doesn’t think of her one second more as he takes Oswald up to bed and brings him into his arms. It’s just simple holding, skin pressed to skin only where their clothing has rumpled and ridden up, but it’s far more than Ed could ask for. <em>It’s far more than he thought he would ever have.</em> </p><p>And for now, it’s enough for them both.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>Ed loses track of time. The only thing he knows is that it had been light outside when he kissed Oswald, so light his eyes glittered like green sea glass, and now, when he begins to stir, the sun has dropped from the sky, only leaving a faint orange glow on the horizon. It must be true what they say: it’s always easier to fall asleep beside the person you love.<p>Oswald, whose cheek is squished rather endearingly against Ed’s collarbone, begins to wake too, shifting his warm weight so he can nestle closer. Ed tries to stretch his cramping legs, but Oswald has hooked his leg around his ankle. Oh well. As long as he’s comfortable. As long as Ed can hold onto this feeling of clutching him so tight that his skin tingles from the heat of it.</p><p>Six days. It took him <em>six</em> whole days of being in close quarters with Oswald to finally pin his heart to his sleeve. Too long, because in the end it was actually <em>easy,</em> the second he let go and let everything he’d been feeling just burst from him. If only he’d… </p><p>He frowns. The guilt churns in his stomach again. He’d mentioned Isabella. Why did he have to mention Isabella? It was a perfect moment- his mind raced, his heart was swollen with all the love in the world, Oswald’s face was cradled in his hands, he could still feel him on his lips. His softness. His warmth. And it all faded the instant he’d reminded them both of her.</p><p>
  <em>Stupid, stupid Ed.</em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ed blurts out, breaking the contented silence.</p><p>A pair of clear eyes latch onto his. “About what?”</p><p>“Earlier. I hesitated.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I just- I was… <em>concerned,</em>” Ed continues, eyes now tracing the crown moulding above them as he taps his fingers nervously on Oswald’s hip.</p><p>“Why?” Oswald asks softly, brushing Ed’s hair back. Apparently he’d forgotten about a certain librarian, too.</p><p>“Isabella won’t be happy,” Ed says, huffing an uneasy laugh.</p><p>“That’s to be expected.”</p><p>“She won’t go easy on me this time.”</p><p>Oswald’s brows pinch together as he studies Ed, hoping for clarification. Then there’s a flash in his eyes and Ed guesses he’s figured an idea of what he means. “Edward,” he begins, slow and icy as a glacier, “is she… <em>hurting</em> you?”</p><p><em>Oh no. No no no no.</em> Ed shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it’s not that bad. He’s sure it could be worse. Isabella seems so kind after what he went through with his parents… </p><p>“Ed, you’re shaking.”</p><p>He didn’t notice. Hot tears prickle his eyes. His throat squeezes so tight and feels so sore he isn’t sure he can answer. “Oswald, she-” he manages to croak, and his chin is trembling and he’s not able to say anything more as Oswald is tensing next to him and pulling him close.</p><p>He can’t help this, sobbing openly in his arms. It’s been a long while since he’s allowed this, but with Oswald right here shushing him and stroking his hair it feels… okay.</p><p>“Edward, my dear love,” Oswald gasps against his temple, and he presses one, two, three, countless kisses there.</p><p>Ed sucks in a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will the tears away. He’s been too vulnerable, it’s time to straighten himself back out. It’s hard not to melt into Oswald again when he continues stroking his cheekbones so softly. They sit up in bed together, Ed rubbing his red eyes, hot tears slipping between his fingers as he does so. He feels strangely lighter inside. Like his chest is no longer encased in cement.</p><p>“I will <em>gut</em> her,” Oswald growls, his fiery gaze held intently into space as he imagines how he’ll go about ending Isabella. His grip on Ed’s arms tenses.</p><p>“It’s not that bad,” Ed says quietly, shaking his head, “It only happened once.”</p><p>“Once is too many times.”</p><p>As those words sink in, soaking deep into his bones, Ed simply buries his face into Oswald’s shoulder, pressing his nose against his warm neck. From here, he can feel his pulse, steady and calming, lulling his own heartbeat.</p><p>“Oswald,” he whispers, shaky and hesitant, his throat squeezing closed as if trying to keep him from even uttering these words, “I’m afraid there’s so much more to her than we know.”</p><p>And Oswald’s chest widens with a deep breath, his arms tighten around him, and Ed already knows what he’ll say. “I fear the same.”</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>They set up a corkboard of their evidence. Push pins, red string and everything. Oswald’s photograph is hung in the very center, with the mystery woman, Ed, and Isabelle pinned in a circle around him. It all makes so much more sense with Isabelle in the picture: she inserts herself into Ed’s life, modeling herself after his dead girlfriend, guaranteeing he won’t—and can’t—turn her away. Ed brings her to the manor. She has direct access to Oswald Cobblepot.<p>There have been so many little incidents over the months that they had simply overlooked, chalked up to nothing. But now, as Oswald traces the red string tying her to Ed, him to Oswald, it’s like the clouds have cleared and everything comes flooding back. He makes a list and pins it right beside her photograph:</p><p>1. Isabelle had begged Oswald to give an already-overwhelmed Ed even more work (more time spent at the manor gave her a golden opportunity to snoop around, he guesses).</p><p>2. Isabelle slyly suggested to Ed that the Sirens donate their security guards for the Founder’s Dinner, knowing that Barbara and Tabitha, as beginner entrepreneurs, couldn’t yet afford the best brass knuckles (an easy weak spot).</p><p>3. That day Oswald’s crucial security documents mysteriously disappeared, right around the time Oswald spotted Isabelle slinking away from his office (they had miraculously reappeared days later, as though he’d only misplaced them).</p><p>4. By Ed’s account, Isabelle had actually persuaded Ed to chase after Oswald the night of the Founder’s Dinner, the night Richard was exposed and they fought. She did this even though she felt that Oswald drove a stake right in the middle of her romance with Ed. (Rather odd for her to play matchmaker for her own boyfriend).</p><p>5. Ed never called Isabelle after Oswald was shot, she appeared at the hospital entirely unprompted. And there was something disturbing about her behavior—Ed is reluctant to discuss it—but from what Oswald gathers, she was almost <em>amused</em> watching Ed fall apart.</p><p>But there’s something else, too, something she <em>didn’t</em> do that makes Oswald bite his nails and ponder: over the last seven days that Ed’s been caring for Oswald, Isabelle did not once try to contact him. This is the same woman who barged into the manor unannounced when she feared she didn’t have Ed’s full attention. Still, despite the sinister implications of it, it is undoubtedly for the best that Ed and Isabelle have severed ties. Who knows how long she’s been hurting him, <em>manipulating</em> him, or what she would dare to do next.</p><p>Since last night, Edward has been… strangely impassive. Putting on an act again, it seems, pretending he never mentioned what Isabelle had done to him. It makes Oswald want to scream, thinking of her laying a hand on Ed like that. He’d personally bite her fingers off if he had the chance. This isn’t the first time someone has hurt Ed, and Oswald knows that for a fact, but Ed’s father is a conversation topic best left alone.</p><p>Oswald and Ed are a lot alike. Two souls drawn to each other against all odds. They’ve both been stepped on one too many times, felt the sting of rejection over and over, had their hearts cut out and thrown at their feet. But now they finally have one another… and it’s time Oswald gives Ed the love he deserves. It’s time he reveals just how deep his affection and devotion run.</p><p>He considers rehearsing his speech, but it all just reminds him of that night he spent at the dinner table, his heart ablaze even as the silent room grew cold around him. All that preparation, and for what? He’d declared his love to an empty chair. Perhaps this time, he shouldn’t overthink it.</p><p>Collecting his courage (and abandoning his wine glass), Oswald wastes no time in marching off to the living room in search of his… well, he’s not sure he can say <em>boyfriend</em> quite yet, but the thought tickles him. There he is, his Ed, hunched over the desk in a sea of crumpled-up balls of paper, pen scribbling away, and Oswald lingers in the doorway, his legs feeling somewhat like they’re encased in slow, thick molasses. How should he begin? Maybe <em>”Edward, my dear, may we talk?”</em> or <em>“Ed, do you have a moment to discuss something important?”</em> What comes out is: “Any luck linking Isabelle to our mystery woman?” Oswald inwardly hits himself for choosing such an atrocious conversation starter… but judging by Ed’s stone-still expression, he remains completely unphased.</p><p>“Not really,” Ed replies, setting his pen down and clasping his hands on his desk, and <em>god</em> his hands are lovely, his fingers long and graceful-</p><p>“Although I still find something odd, Os.”</p><p>Through the panic clouding his mind, he’d scarcely been listening until Ed tapped his index finger on the paper before him. “Hm?” Oswald wipes his shaking palms on his trousers.</p><p>“This woman introduces herself to you only minutes before you get shot, then Is-” Ed coughs, like her name catches in his throat, “Isabella shows up at the hospital. It’s just, they both seem to be in the right place at just the right time.”</p><p>“That is odd,” Oswald offers lamely.</p><p>“I’ll need to keep analyzing what we have, though. So many puzzle pieces,” he presses his mouth into a line, thinking, then nudges his glasses up his nose so he can properly look at Oswald. “But anywho. How are you feeling, Os?”</p><p>His stomach drops through the floor. Now’s the time.</p><p>“I- I’m wonderful. Listen, Ed, there’s something I need to tell you… something I had been meaning to say for a while, I think, and-” Words fail him at the sight of Ed looking like all the color has been sucked from his face. “It’s nothing bad-” Oswald stops himself and sighs. “I just feel that I need to be… straightforward, is all. About my intentions.”</p><p>Ed stands in anticipation, but the way his Adam’s apple bobs and the lines drawn across his forehead deepen worries Oswald. For a moment, he feels he’s been flung back to that morning he first tried to confess, with the pale light glowing through the window beside him, the look of confusion and concern washing over Ed’s face. Only then, he hadn’t yet known the heat of Ed’s skin against his own, or the gentle heaviness of Ed’s hand holding his, or the taste of Ed’s lips. He wills his fear to dissolve, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine how that slick cold will slip from his body, how it will be replaced by the blooming warmth of this man.</p><p>“Oswald?”</p><p>He snaps back to life. He won’t run again. “Edward,” he squares his shoulders, as though bracing himself for stinging rejection, “I’m in love with you.”</p><p>“Oh, me too,” Ed breathes wistfully, his face melting into contentment and his shoulders falling in relief, “I- I mean- I’m in love with <em>you.</em> Not with myself.” A bubbly giggle escapes him, one far too endearing, and it leaves Oswald feeling like he’s floating. </p><p>“I hoped as much,” he replies, dizzy. <em>How can this be anything other than a dream?</em> He’ll replay this moment over and over in his mind when he curls up in bed at night, carefully etching each and every detail into his memory: the wonder in Ed’s voice as his confession slips from his lips, the airiness of his laugh, the way Oswald can gaze deep into those gleaming eyes and see their entire lives ahead of them. And this time when Oswald falls asleep, he’ll be in Ed’s arms.</p><p>“I think maybe…” Ed glances down as he twiddles his thumbs, “I’ve felt this way for a while now. I just didn’t realize until I- until I almost lost you.”</p><p>Perhaps Oswald’s heart melts just a little bit more. “Oh, Ed,” he whispers, his hands coming up to cup Ed’s face, thumbs stroking soothingly. Those eyes dive deep into his own, flitting back and forth, waiting. Without another word (he’s not even sure what to say, or if anything needs to be said), Oswald leans up and presses his lips to Ed’s, softly at first, then with more pressure as he feels Ed return his kiss. No matter how many times Oswald imagined these moments—finding his way into Ed’s arms like he'd always belonged there, stretching up on tiptoes to meet his lips—no fantasy ever came close to the real thing. Never did he dream of Ed loving him <em>this much,</em> but when he looks into Ed’s eyes, his heart thuds so heavily against his ribs that he <em>knows,</em> he knows that somehow he’s become Ed’s entire world. He could giggle at the thought. However long they go on (Oswald hopes it’s forever) he’s certain he’ll never get used to this.</p><p>“Um, Ed?” Ed hums against his lips in response and the vibration tingles all the way down to Oswald’s chest. “That riddle you told me the other day, at the piano. How did it go?”</p><p>An easy smile finds its way across Ed’s face and he tips forward, bringing their foreheads to rest against each other. “<em>My loss brings you pain, yet my absence entirely feels the same. I can be difficult to accept, yet you cannot ignore me. To one I am nothing, to two I am everything. What am I?</em>”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>With a warm blush, he says, “You already know the answer, my love.” Their noses brush together, their lips meet once again. It feels like Oswald has been holding his breath the whole time, waiting for this.</p><p>He could kiss him for years and years.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>The days seem to blur together, stretched out in one long expanse that blooms from faded, hopeless grey to bright, bursting red. Eight days. So much has changed in so little time, it’s almost startling. Despite everything—namely, the hole in his stomach and the stalker sending him flower petals and other threats—Oswald feels <em>happier,</em> not quite so solemn and alone. He has Ed, after all.<p>But the dread… the dread still remains, settling like a cold stone on his heart each time he lets himself be a little <em>too</em> content. He finds himself pulling back the curtains and gazing out the window often now, watching. As if she would reveal herself that easily.</p><p>He feels Ed’s arms encircling him, pulling him tight to his chest, then the feathery brush of his nose and lips against his jawline. Oswald leans into his touch, tilting back on his heels and arching his neck. He would smile at the affection—it seems that ever since the two finally revealed their long-hidden love for each other, Ed’s taken any and every chance he can get to touch him, hold him, kiss him—but Oswald still can’t shake the worry crawling up his spine, keeping him on his toes.</p><p>Ed rests his chin against Oswald’s collarbone, the weight of him heavy and comforting. “Get some rest, Os. You’re still healing,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to his shoulder.</p><p>“Ed, if she’s really part of this, if she’s out there-”</p><p>He’s hushed and squeezed just a little tighter before he can finish fretting. “We’ll be ready.”</p><p>“She knows so much,” Oswald whispers, as though she can hear him, can <em>taste</em> his fear like a coiling predator waiting to strike.</p><p>Another kiss to his neck. “<em>Oswald.</em>” He’s being turned away from the window. A gentle hand pressed to his back propels him onward, to the bedroom. He knows what awaits him, they’ve done this several times already: Oswald will nudge off his slippers, Ed will loosen his tie, and they’ll crawl into bed together, curling up in the middle with the comforter tucked up to their chins and their arms around each other. They’ll pretend, just for a little while, that there are no beasts lurking in the shadows, ravenous for their warm, beating hearts.</p><p>But when he closes his eyes, Oswald finds himself trapped before the dark hallway once again. That woman—no, that <em>creature</em>—creeps around the corner, her jagged talons leaving long gashes in the wallpaper, and Oswald can feel every cut. Oswald shrieks at her—tells her to <em>leave,</em> she’s not wanted here—but the only sound he makes is a strained squeak. His throat screams, aches.</p><p>And she stops.</p><p>Oswald holds his breath.</p><p>And then two ice cold hands snatch his neck from behind, sinking like needles into his skin.</p><p>A cry claws its way out of his throat and he’s thrown from his nightmare, hot tears streaming down his nose as he gasps for air. He clings to the first thing he can get his hands on—the pillow—and squeezes it tight, tries to ground himself. Nightmares are certainly no stranger to him: as a child, he’d toss and turn at least a few nights every week. He always had his mother to curl up with when his heart pounded so fast he couldn’t sleep.</p><p>But Ed is here now, a solid weight by his side signaling <em>comfort.</em> Oswald doesn’t have to keep his distance anymore, doesn’t have to stuff down his feelings for him and pretend they’re only friends. Releasing the now-rumpled pillow from his grip, he sniffles and burrows closer into Ed’s open, waiting arms.</p><p>“I’m here, Os.” He buries his face into Ed’s shirt, lets the rest of the world fall away, for now. “I’m here.”</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>“Ozzie. Why haven’t I heard from you?”<p>Oswald winces at Barbara’s accusatorial bite. “I just hadn’t gotten around to calling, is all,” he mutters, poking at the bowl of leftover tomato soup Ed had placed on his bed tray table before dashing downstairs to continue his research. He’d insisted that Oswald have a late lunch since the two of them napped past noon.</p><p>“You get shot a bit over a week ago and you don’t bother to call your dear friend Babs? I was worried.”</p><p>Leaning back against his pillows, he drops his spoon into his bowl (the soup is much too hot still, he’s already burned his tongue twice). “I assure you, I’m perfectly fine.”</p><p>He can hear the ice clinking in her glass, speaking her silent disapproval. Her eyebrow is definitely raised. He gives a deep sigh, as dramatic as he can muster. “Alright, fine. I apologize. I should have called sooner.”</p><p>“Good, I’m glad you’re doing better,” she chirps, her demeanor sweet and bright again.</p><p>“Mm-hm.”</p><p>“By the way, I saw your boy toy Richard moping around the Siren’s about two days ago. You should’ve seen him, with his sad little pout and his umbrella cocktail,” she snorts, but quiets when she seems to sense Oswald’s uncomfortable shifting. “I’m guessing you two didn’t patch things up, huh?”</p><p>“No,” Oswald replies simply, his tone just sharp enough to warn her not to prod at that wound.</p><p>She sighs. “I suppose it’s just as well. I think poor Eddie would combust if you kept making heart eyes at someone other than him.”</p><p>The reminder that he actually made Ed Nygma jealous makes his heart skip a beat- even though Ed’s months-long pining is far from secret at this point. “I have a feeling he won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Oswald answers faintly, and from Barbara’s gasp, he knows she caught his voice tipping towards dreaminess.</p><p>“Oh my goodness,” she says, mystified, and Oswald can only <em>imagine</em> how her face must light up, “you two finally stopped dancing around each other!”</p><p>Oswald giggles and for the first time, doesn’t feel foolish for it. He’s in love, and anybody can dare try to sue him for it. “He kissed me,” he adds, smiling so wide his cheeks ache.</p><p>“Do the horizontal mambo with him, yet?”</p><p>He flushes. “Barbara!”</p><p>“Hm, really? I would have thought by now, after all those months of Ed trying to get you out of your pants-”</p><p>He jolts upright, the soup on his tray sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the bowl. “I <em>was</em> shot, you know. And he’s been a wonderful caretaker.”</p><p>“I have no doubt. It’s just a shame you had to take a bullet to the gut for him to finally get his head out of his ass.”</p><p>Oswald huffs. “Perhaps I should thank whoever was behind the trigger.”</p><p>“Thank them with a rusty knife, you mean,” Barbara supplies, the sound of a wicked smile in her words.</p><p>“One can dream. Speaking of, do you happen to remember seeing an older blonde woman at the Founder’s Dinner? Pretentious, kind of… scratchy, dead fox hanging around her neck?”</p><p>“Of course I remember,” she answers without hesitating, “I’m pretty damn good with faces, especially ones like hers. And I asked around. Nobody’s seen her before.”</p><p>“Ed and I found she has a connection to Strange. We’re not sure where it leads or how we’ll get an answer out of him-”</p><p>“Ozzie, that’s… that’s <em>bad.</em>”</p><p>“I’ve gathered that.”</p><p>There’s a loud, cracking thud on Barbara’s end, probably her emptied cocktail glass hitting the table, and Oswald has to yank the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Who knows what she could be doing with Strange!” Barbara cries, impatient, “He’s always got some screwed up experiment in the works, you and I have both had enough experience with him to know that.”</p><p>“Whatever they have in store for me, I know it’s worse than death,” Oswald says quietly. “So if you find anything, anything at all, <em>please</em> let us know.”</p><p>For several seconds there’s silence, nothing but the hum and crackle of telephone static. “I will,” Barbara eventually murmurs, just when Oswald had begun to think she’d hung up. “And Ozzie?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Stay safe in the meantime, okay?” she says, and her voice is steady, but there’s an underlying current to it, something trembling and grim that Oswald isn’t sure he’s ever heard come from her. It’s too disquieting when Barbara Kean loses confidence.</p><p>“This <em>owl woman</em> doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he assures, throwing on a convincing mask of certainty, and for a moment, he almost believes his own words. “We’ll talk again soon, I promise.”</p><p>And the line clicks.</p><p>The sky outside has turned gray, the clouds only faint smudges against charcoal. It seems like only moments earlier it had been light out. Perhaps Oswald should get out of bed, check on Ed’s progress. He lifts the bed tray from his lap and sets it aside, feeling momentarily guilty for not having touched the now-lukewarm soup. Ed will surely try to reheat it for him when he finds the full bowl on their nightstand.</p><p>Oswald gingerly slips out of bed, smooths out his wrinkled dress shirt to the best of his ability, and heads for the stairs to begin his search.</p><p>“Ed?” he calls out when he reaches the last few steps. “Edward?” No answer still. Oswald rounds the doorway to the living room and finds it empty, not a trace of Ed anywhere, no half-drained cups of coffee or misplaced pens or disturbed pillows. Ed’s likely tucked into the corner of the library, buried in books and notes and withdrawn deep into his own mind.</p><p>But there, on the table beside the sofa, is a lovely, steaming cup of tea with a slice of lemon on the side. Oswald smiles.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-------------------------------</p>
</div>It’s only when Ed feels his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose that he realizes he had been dozing off in the library’s rather comfortable chaise lounge. He’d only meant to close his tired eyes for a moment, to give them a rest from the continuous strain of staring at page after page and word after word. He scrambles upright, shoves his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and scans the evidence board as though it will show him something new. Nothing, just the same red string, the same unassuming photograph of Isabella gazing back at him. He’s been at this too long, staring hopelessly and coming up with nothing. Ed Nygma, the smartest man in Gotham, can’t solve a simple puzzle. <em>Pathetic.</em><p>He sighs deeply and goes off to the staircase, Oswald on his mind. He’ll probably need his tomato soup reheated. Or maybe he should have more blankets? The Spring breeze has been rather chilly lately. Perhaps a cup of tea? Just as Ed rounds the corner and is about to scale the first step, he catches sight of Oswald through the living room doorway, sitting in his armchair.</p><p>“Oswald, there you are,” he smiles with ease as he swings into the room, “Feeling any better?”</p><p>Oswald hums in confirmation, his lips tugging into a small smile. “Thank you, by the way,” he raises his teacup as if making a toast, “it’s a tad bit sweeter than I like, though.”</p><p>Something so simple as that leaves something within Ed sinking. “Oswald, I didn’t make that.”</p><p>“Hm. Maybe Olga came back from her leave early?”</p><p>Ed shakes his head briskly. “I haven’t seen her.”</p><p>Oswald tips the near-empty cup toward him. “I certainly didn’t make this, Ed.”</p><p>“I did.” A figure prowls forward from the shadows, and a nauseating rush of cold plunges through Ed’s chest.</p><p>“Isabella,” he gasps.</p><p>For a moment, she doesn’t respond, just watches the two of them with the cool, glinting eyes of a predator, a gun held idle at her side. Oswald takes a stuttering breath beside Ed, then groans, and before Ed can really understand what’s happening, Oswald doubles over, eyes squeezed shut, one arm wrapped tightly around himself.</p><p>“Oswald?” Ed’s brain is slow, too slow- it’s the <em>tea,</em> of course it is. He whirls around to face the woman he once called his girlfriend. “<em>What did you give him?!</em>”</p><p>Her smile stretches wide and red but doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, just a little cocktail of all the classics. Strychnine, arsenic… some other nice things.”</p><p>Ceramic hits the floor, shattering, dashing shards across the tiles and burning poison with it.</p><p>“Os?”</p><p>He looks up from the broken teacup at his feet. Blood stains his teeth. He tips forward, stumbling out of his chair and onto his hands and knees. More blood on the tiles.</p><p>Ed doesn’t think twice before lunging that short distance to him, his hands outstretched.</p><p>“Ah-ah,” Isabella sings, and she swings her leg and smacks Ed in the temple with her boot, knocking him back away from Oswald. While eyeing Ed with a piercing gaze, she stalks closer to Oswald, who, even struggling to breathe through his pain, sits back on his heels and meets her stare.</p><p>Unblinking, she raises her pointed heel and presses slowly into Oswald’s barely-healed bullet wound, pulling a shriek from him- a horrible, anguished sound Ed’s never heard from him, never dreamed he would hear, never wished he would hear. It makes Isabella smile again.</p><p>“Oswald!” Fighting against the haziness clouding his aching head, Ed struggles to his hands and knees and tries to crawl to him.</p><p>
  <em>Click.</em>
</p><p>“Come any closer and I’ll kill him before you can blink.” Her gun is trained on Oswald.</p><p>He freezes, and only breathes again when she lowers her foot away from Oswald’s stomach. “Why are you doing this?”</p><p><em>“I want you to suffer as I have!”</em> she cries, shrill and <em>devastated,</em> a shriek that rattles Ed to his core. The windows shake and nearly burst.</p><p>“What has he done to you, Isabella? Love me?”</p><p>Her mouth twists into a pained, watery smile. “Oh, no, this isn’t about him. Not anymore. This is about <em>you!</em>” She jabs her gun toward Ed.</p><p>“Wh- What?”</p><p>“Oh, Eddie. I never loved you,” she sneers, “You think I was just your sweet little girlfriend? No, I always had a mission.”</p><p>“The wine shop-”</p><p>Isabella rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t <em>fate.</em>”</p><p>“You got to Oswald through me,” Ed says, breathless. The strings are finally connecting.</p><p>“I knew you wouldn’t turn me away. Believe me, it was painful: posing as your girlfriend after what you’ve done. My hatred for you boiled, and my mission… shifted. I found a more important task than eliminating our dear Mayor,” she casts an absent smile at Oswald, who shoots her a glare with gritted teeth. “And why give him a quick, humane death when I could make you <em>squirm</em> as I torture him slowly? What better revenge than this?”</p><p>“Revenge?!”</p><p>Ignoring him, Isabella paces a few steps. “Of course, before I took away everything you loved, I first had to make sure you actually <em>did</em> love him. It wasn’t hard, getting you to spill your feelings, even if you still couldn’t admit them to yourself.”</p><p>Ed remembers. He can still feel the sting of her nails cutting into his cheeks.</p><p>“You know, Eddie, that night you came running home to me, crying that you’d lost him forever? That was the night I decided.”</p><p>“Decided what?”</p><p>“That I wasn’t done playing just yet,” she says, each word slow and ice cold. “My superiors were terribly upset that I didn’t finish the job then and there at the Founder’s Dinner, but I knew in my heart that it was the right choice.”</p><p>“That’s why you didn’t just shoot Oswald in the head,” Ed concludes, “You wanted him to have a chance.”</p><p>“And that’s why I called the ambulance right before I pulled the trigger. It was just,” she shrugs, “it was too much fun. If I had just let him die then, well… that would have been too easy.”</p><p>Ed huffs. “You still haven’t told me what this is all about.”</p><p>“You know what this is about.”</p><p>“I <em>don’t,</em> so spit it out!”</p><p>“I wanted you to <em>feel</em> the grief that I’ve endured, that endless pain, that powerlessness of losing the only person who matters to you!” The gun in her hand begins to tremble.</p><p>“What are you talking about?! Stop this, he’s dying!”</p><p>“You feel it now, don’t you?” she whispers, studying him in fascination, “That’s good.”</p><p>Oswald groans, arms still clutching at his sides, his face twisted in a pained grimace. <em>“Tell me!”</em> Ed shouts frantically.</p><p>“This,” she levels her gun between his eyes, “is for my sister.”</p><p>There’s the ear-splitting crack of the bullet, then Oswald cries out for Ed, and there’s something hot and slick and wet on Ed’s cheek. But he’s still alive.</p><p>It’s when he looks up again that he sees Isabella’s eyes are glassy, he sees her sway, and he sees the hole blown through her forehead, oozing and dripping thick redness. She crumples to the floor with a horrible thud. Stomach churning, Ed rubs at his cheek to get that sickening wetness off. He feels so distant from his own body, from his own bloody hand.</p><p>
  <em>She’s… she’s gone.</em>
</p><p>And then someone else steps out of the shadowed hallway, a tall, severe-looking blonde woman, and Ed doesn’t need to guess twice who she is. He faintly hears Oswald gasp.</p><p>“This is what happens when you don’t keep them on a short leash,” she says, removing a handkerchief from her blazer pocket and polishing her still-smoking gun with it, “They become out of control. It’s a shame, too. She had so much potential.” the woman casts a disappointed gaze down at Isabella and steps away from the dark pool of red collecting too close to her satin pumps.</p><p>“You,” Oswald spits out, a spray of blood painting the air.</p><p>“Please, call me Kathryn.” She pets the dead fox hung around her collar.</p><p>“What did she mean by sister?” Ed cuts in shakily.</p><p>The woman—Kathryn—snorts. “Kristen Kringle was never her <em>sister.</em>”</p><p>Ed’s heart throbs heavily, he grits his teeth. <em>No, it can’t be…</em></p><p>“No, Isabella wasn’t Kristen, either. Not exactly,” Kathryn answers, arching an eyebrow as though annoyed by Ed’s confusion. “All it took was a tiny sample of stem cells and a little programming, and <em>voila!</em>”</p><p>A gasp escapes from Ed, and the hard stone in his gut dissolves to swimming nausea. “You-”</p><p>“Created a clone, yes. Incredible, the things you can do, even with a corpse. Oh, and we reburied Ms. Kringle exactly where you left her, once we were done taking what we needed from her.”</p><p>Dizzy, so dizzy. Oswald reaches out his hand, trembling and pale, and brushes against the underside of the table, where Ed knows he keeps a hidden gun holster.</p><p>“Isabella would have removed whatever weapons you hid under there, I’m afraid,” Kathryn remarks suddenly, turning her eyes on Oswald, making him withdraw his hand as though burned. “Like I said, she had potential. She was sharp. But not good enough.”</p><p>“She tormented us for months,” Ed spits, “Wasn’t that enough?”</p><p>“Do you know why we gave Isabella those memories- why we gave her a sister? I can share it with you, it’s fine. You won’t tell anyone,” her mouth twitches into an odd smile. “It’s simple: all she needed was a little drive to get the mission done, something to motivate her. Punish you, Mr. Nygma, by killing the Mayor. But,” she sighs, “things did not go as planned. Her personal feelings began to cloud her judgement more than we anticipated. But, we’ll do better next time, I’m sure.”</p><p>“You were using her,” Oswald chokes out weakly. Blood leaks from his lips and Ed knows he’s running out of time. “Planting ideas in her head, manipulating her. All that, just to get rid of me.”</p><p>Kathryn nods, bowing her head. “She did make you suffer much longer than we intended, and for that I apologize. But it will all be over soon, I promise.”</p><p>“Please,” Ed pleads, the cold, wet taste of salt on his lips, “please, <em>don’t do this.</em>”</p><p>Kathryn ignores him. “Just a few minutes left.”</p><p>From across the room, Ed and Oswald find each other’s gaze, and for the second time in his life, Ed watches helplessly as the light fades from Oswald’s eyes. He hates her, hates her, <em>hates her,</em> so much that he feels it torching his insides. Chest heaving, he readies himself. Isabella’s gun swims in a pool of her blood only a few feet away.</p><p>“Oswald, I love you,” he whispers, his throat aching, and Oswald doesn’t seem to hear him. This could end with both of them dead, either way. That gun is his only chance. He’ll need to be quick: leap forward, grab it, maneuver it in his grip, pull the trigger.</p><p>Oswald collapses against the tiles, face down. <em>No, no, no…</em> </p><p>Ed dives forward, fingers straining, closing around cool metal sticky with blood. He doesn’t see Kathryn swing her arm back, doesn’t notice her looming over him, until she strikes down hard. The gun cracks against Ed’s skull and he can see no more.</p><div class="center">
  <p>TO BE CONTINUED</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for sticking with this fic! I've decided to turn this into a series because I felt ending it after 8 chapters was too abrupt. I'm surprised by how long it's getting, so I hope you will enjoy part 2. We still need our happy ending for Ed and Oswald!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>please comment or leave kudos if you're enjoying this so far!! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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